


Careless

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Developing Relationship, John is a Saint, Library Sex, Library assistant Sherlock, M/M, Nonvirgin Sherlock, PhD student John, Sherlock fucks up, Sherlock lies about his age, Smut, Unilock, all the sex, slight dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2029701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is an eighteen year old student working at a library. John is an army medic sent back to London after an injury. He's spending a lot of time at the library working on his PhD. Sherlock decides he wants to fuck this mystery student, so he initiates a sexual relationship. He doesn't really do emotional attachment anyhow, and if he tells John he's twenty three, what's the harm? It's not like he'll want John to stick around. Right? Right?!? </p><p>Sherlock done fucked up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bad, Bad Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts).



> Loosely based on Criminal by Fiona Apple:
> 
> I've been a bad bad girl  
> I've been careless  
> With a delicate man  
> And it's a sad sad world  
> When a girl will break a boy  
> Just because she can  
> Don't you tell me to deny it  
> I've done wrong and  
> I want to  
> Suffer for my sins  
> I've come to you  
> 'Cause I need  
> Guidance to be true  
> And I just don't know  
> Where I can begin  
> What I need is  
> A good defense  
> 'Cause I'm feelin'  
> Like a criminal  
> And I need  
> To be redeemed  
> To the one  
> I've sinned against  
> Because he's all  
> I ever knew of love
> 
> Heaven help me  
> For the way I am  
> Save me from  
> These evil deeds  
> Before I get them done  
> I know tomorrow brings  
> The consequence at hand  
> But I keep livin' this day like  
> The next will never come
> 
> Oh help me but  
> Don't tell me to deny it  
> I've got to cleanse myself  
> Of all these lies till  
> I'm good enough for him  
> I've got a lot to lose  
> And I'm bettin' high  
> So I'm beggin' you  
> Before it ends  
> Just tell me where to begin
> 
> What I need  
> Is a good defense  
> 'Cause I'm feelin'  
> Like a criminal  
> And I need  
> To be redeemed  
> To the one  
> I've sinned against  
> Because he's all  
> I ever knew of love
> 
> Let me know the way  
> Before there's hell to pay  
> Give me room to lay  
> The law and let me go  
> I've got to make a play  
> To make my lover stay  
> So what would an angel say  
> The devil wants to know
> 
> What I need  
> Is a good defense  
> 'Cause I'm feelin'  
> Like a criminal  
> And I need  
> To be redeemed  
> To the one  
> I've sinned against  
> Because he's all  
> I ever knew of love
> 
> What I need is  
> A good defense  
> 'Cause I'm feelin'  
> Like a criminal  
> And I need  
> To be redeemed  
> To the one  
> I've sinned against
> 
> Because he's all  
> I ever knew of love

It was well after the library should have closed but John was so caught up in his research that he didn't notice all the other patrons leaving. He scribbled furiously in his notebook and flipped through the pages he'd already filled. He was close to a breakthrough, he could feel it. If he just got a singularly new thought out there he'd have no problem getting his PhD. 

"Your pen's out of ink." Said a deep voice from behind him. 

John looked up, glasses slipping from his face, to see a handsome young man pushing a cart full of books. His breath caught in his throat as he looked the tall man up and down. 

"Your pen." The man echoed. 

John looked down to find that the notes he'd been scrawling hadn't taken. His pen, indeed out of ink, had only left scratches. His head hit the table and he groaned. The young man stepped forward and slipped the notebook from under his face. 

"Follow me." He said with a small smirk. 

John got up and did just that, then noticing that most of the lights had been turned out. He followed the handsome stranger down the hall and into a back room, fidgeting nervously with the hem of his jumper. 

"Are you closed? I didn't notice." He said softly. 

"No, you didn't." The man said. 

John watched as he slipped the notebook onto one of the biggest photocopiers he had ever seen and pressed a load of buttons. The machine whirred to life and spit out a grey page. The stranger handed it over and John looked at it, the words now in sharp contrast. He smiled up at the brunette as he copied the second page and then stapled them into the notebook. 

When their hands brushed John felt a jolt of something run through him. He stuck his hands behind his back and nibbled on his lip until the man was done fixing his research. When he handed it back over John could feel the flush reaching up his neck. 

"Thanks, that's really kind of you. I would have spent the next half hour painstakingly going over every line with a new biro." John said. "Guess I'd better be off, seeing as you're closed and all." He added weakly. 

He got his things and quickly left the room, then building, feeling an extra bounce in his step and wondering if he would see the mystery man the next day. He certainly hoped so. 

\-----

Sherlock watched the golden haired PhD student leave and unconsciously licked his lips, then noticed it, having it turn into a conscious licking of the lips. Interesting. He didn't usually get aroused by anyone in particular, but this man had given him pause. He filed the knowledge away and hit a few more buttons on the large machine. It printed out two more copies. He'd have to read them later. 

He folded them and turned the machine off, walking to the meeting room and sticking his head in. 

"I'm off, Molly. I'll be back tomorrow around noon." He said. 

The bookish girl spun around with a deep blush and played with her hair. "Okay. Would you like, well I mean, would you want to get coffee?" 

Sherlock put on his best fake smile, which wasn't very convincing even to the most idiotic observer, and shook his head. "Can't tonight. Brother's picking me up. Gotta dash." 

The girl slumped and shrugged sadly. She really was hopelessly infatuated with him, to the point of trying to ask him out on a weekly basis. Sherlock wondered how much longer she would try before she caught on to the fact that he wasn't interested. He figured two more weeks, the human brain is a stubborn thing. 

When he got out to the kerb Mycroft was already waiting in his idling car. Sherlock slipped into the back of the nondescript black sedan and tapped on the window divider. 

"Why must you always sit in the back, Sherlock? I'm not your chauffeur." Mycroft said once the partition was down. 

"Quiet now, Jenkins. Take me home." Sherlock said in a mock serious tone. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and pulled away from the kerb. 

"Anything of note happen at work today...sir?" Mycroft asked once they were properly on their way. 

"Met an interesting fellow. PhD student with a nervous disposition. Think I'd like to see more of him." Sherlock said honestly. 

"PhD student? Don't you think he might be a little old for you?" Mycroft asked. 

Sherlock looked pointedly at him and he huffed and added a 'sir'. 

"I'm an adult. He's an adult. I don't see why two adults can't get on." Sherlock said haughtily. 

"You're just eighteen, sir, he's probably ten years your senior. Don't you think that would bother him?"

"I've been known to charm men out of their sense of propriety before. Don't think I'll fail anew with this one." Sherlock replied. 

"Playing with fire, brother dear. Might just get you burned."

Sherlock snorted and rolled the window up. 

\-----

When John made it to the library the next day after school he looked around for the handsome young man. He didn't see him anywhere and so, with a great sigh, went to work. He was taking furious notes again by the time the clock hit half nine and decided he'd best call it a day before he ended up being escorted out by someone much less attractive than the dark haired stranger. 

He'd just packed up his things when he heard steps behind him. He glanced back to find those penetrating eyes focused on him. He took a sharp breath and pushed his glasses up his nose, aware that the move made him look even more pathetic than he currently felt. 

"Take me for a coffee." The man said. 

"Sorry, What?" John replied, eyebrows furrowed. 

"You heard me. My shift is off in ten and I want an espresso." The man said with a predatory glint in his eyes. 

John moved his rucksack to his other shoulder and nodded weakly. "Yeah. Okay." He said, standing a bit taller with his shoulders back. 

He wasn't sure how this mysterious man had turned him into an anxious teenager. He'd been to war for God's sake, he wasn't one for wilting under pressure. 

The younger man pointed at a chair and smirked. "Sit." 

John did without thinking, cursing himself for being overtaken by a thin curly haired sedcutor. What could he honestly say, though, he'd always been one for the pushy type. Murray was a sterling example of that, alpha male type that just oozed testosterone. This one seemed to be a bit androgynous, but it had its merits too; legs that apparently didn't know when to stop, tousled curls and lush lips. Christ, he was already lost. 

\-----

Twenty minutes later they were sitting across from each other in a dark booth at the back of a local coffee shop. Sherlock was sipping his espresso and John had a little foam mustache from his latte. Sherlock reached across and rubbed it off with his index finger, slipping it between his lips and making a smacking sound. 

John cleared his throat and licked his lip self-consciously. "You didn't tell me your name." 

"You didn't tell me yours...John Watson. It's a strong name. I'm Sherlock. Don't have a last name, parents were too poor for it." Sherlock said with a smirk. 

John chuckled. "Liar. Don't I get to know your last name?" 

"Maybe someday." Sherlock said wistfully. 

"So, what do you do besides work at the library and push around strange men?" John asked, sitting back a little more comfortably and sipping his drink. 

"I study science at a private college. And you aren't strange. Not average either, but not strange."

"So you're what, twenty three?" John asked. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Hit the nail on the head." He lied. 

John chewed on his bottom lip and tore pieces off the paper napkin under his mug. 

"I'd like you to take me to bed. You're the sturdy sort, I think you'd show me a good time." Sherlock purred, quite suddenly running the toe of his shoe up to John's inner thigh. 

John sat up quickly and choked a bit. "Christ! Pushy brat!" 

His cheeks were turning a violent shade of rose and he chuckled as he ran a hand over the back of his neck. 

"You like it." Sherlock teased. 

John licked his lips and spent much too long looking at Sherlock's neck. 

"I do." He said with a final short nod. "Your place or mine?" 

"Yours." Sherlock said, and that predatory glint was back in his eye, and John wondered exactly what he was getting himself into. 

\-----

On the ride back to John's flat Sherlock slipped his hand up John's thigh and stared out the window. John was already getting hard and readjusting himself in his trousers. 

His flat was small but tidy, remnant of his army days, and Sherlock slipped through the door and sat comfortably on the sofa. John went to the fridge and pulled out a lager, holding it up to see if Sherlock wanted one. 

"Do you need to be drunk to have sex with me?" Sherlock asked. 

John rested his head against the fridge and shook it slightly. He put the beer back and went to stand in front of the sofa. 

"Well, Mr 'I don't do pretense', how about we move to the bed?" John asked. 

Sherlock got up fluidly and pressed himself to John's front. "I like the way you think." He whispered in John's ear. 

John followed Sherlock to his own bedroom, how the young man had figured which door it was he didn't know, and slowly stripped. He slipped his belt from the loops and unbuttoned his shirt, letting it slide off his shoulders to the floor. The large sunburst scar on his shoulder was noticed without comment and John toed off his shoes and removed his jeans, pants, and socks. 

Sherlock sat on the bed during the whole show, staring hungrily at his prize. John was already quite hard and a deep flush covered his chest. Precome began to glisten at the head of his cock. 

"Do you want me to take your clothes off?" He asked, voice husky even to his own ears. 

"I'd rather like that." Sherlock murmured. 

John took a step forward and began unbuttoning the dark red shirt slowly. He was so aroused at this point that his cock was jutting out and starting to leak copiously. Once he had all the buttons undone he slid his hands up Sherlock's chest to brush his thumbs across the younger man's throat. He bent down and took those perfect lips of Sherlock's in a searing kiss, pressing his tongue between them and groaning as Sherlock gripped and pulled apart his buttocks. 

Sherlock swatted at them once and John drew in a deep breath, eyes growing hungry. John started on his flies and pulled down his charcoal trousers and pants in one go. Sherlock's cock bounced lazily to attention and John hummed his approval. He undid the laces of Sherlock's slim shoes and removed them and his socks then slipped his pants and trousers from his feet. He got on the bed and reached into the bedside table, pulling out a condom and some lube before settling on his front and presenting his arse. 

Sherlock chuckled darkly and climbed onto the bed behind him. He picked up the lube and covered the fingers of his right hand. When he ran one down the crease of John's arse he got an answering moan. He pressed gently at the puckered hole and rubbed in circles until John was moaning and moving his hips. 

The older man let out a whine as Sherlock pushed the tip in, working lazily and pushing in further bit by bit. Soon John was whimpering and pushing his hips back and Sherlock was pushing in another finger. He scissored them slowly and bit down on John's right arsecheek. 

"You can-you can put another in." John gasped. 

Sherlock didn't have to be asked twice and breached him yet again, pumping slowly in and out. 

"That's enough!" John said dazedly. 

"Not quite." Sherlock replied, reaching around and gripping the base of John's cock to stave off orgasm. "I don't want to hurt you. You'll need a bit more preparation before I stick my cock in." 

John whimpered and pushed his face into the pillow, letting out a low growl and acquiescing. Sherlock returned to his slow ministrations and John just growled and bit the pillow until the fingers were withdrawn and he heard the condom being opened. 

Sherlock rolled it on and moved up John's body so he was covering him completely. He held his prick out and pushed his hips down slowly. The head popped in and John sighed in sudden relief. Sherlock pulled it back out John made a sad little sound in the back of his throat. 

"God, you're just gagging for my cock, aren't you?" Sherlock asked, gripping his prick and rubbing it around John's twitching hole. 

John nodded feverishly and pushed his hips up. Sherlock laughed and pushed into him roughly. 

"You see?" Sherlock said, thrusting in and out of John quickly. "Now that I've got you good and loose I can give you the hard fuck you so desperately need." 

"Oh, God yes!" John yelled as slick sounds filled the flat. 

Sherlock laughed and pumped harder, twisting his hips and making John howl. 

"Tell me, how long has it been since you've felt totally dominated?" Sherlock asked as he pulled John's wrists up behind his back. 

"Tuh-tuh-too long!" John whined. 

"I think that's true. I'm going to fuck you harder now. Tell me when you need to come." Sherlock said, voice becoming desperate and broken. 

He pistoned in and out of John so fast the whole bed rocked and creaked, slapping sounds joining his pained breaths. He gripped John's wrists tight and John began to shake. 

"I need! I need to come!" John shouted. 

"Can you do it with just my cock inside you?" Sherlock asked, releasing John's wrists and gripping his hips painfully. 

"I-I'm not sure."

"I think you can, John. I think all I need to do is shift my hips just so...yes, that's is isn't it?" Sherlock purred, deftly finding John's prostate and slamming into it. 

John started making little 'ha' sounds and Sherlock sped up just a bit more. 

"Come, John. Come for me like I know you want to." Sherlock growled. 

John cried out and clenched his arsehole tight as he came against the duvet with frightening force. Sherlock's hips stuttered as he pushed through the tightening hole in shallow bursts until he was coming as well, filling the condom and making strange little noises he couldn't control. 

Once he was spent he pulled gently out and lay with his face against John's arsecheek. He kissed it gently and ran his hand up and down it. 

"Oh, John. So good. So good for me." He murmured. 

John sighed happily as he lay in a puddle of his own mess. 

"Let me clean you up." Sherlock whispered, getting up from the bed with a loud groan and walking to the loo. 

He brought back a warm wet flannel and John wondered absently how a twenty three year old was so bloody thoughtful. 

"I take care of my pets, that's how." Sherlock said, turning John over and licking a bit of come from his flaccid cock. 

"Jesus." John whimpered. 

Sherlock cleaned him off and lay down next to him. "I'll let you kip for a half hour before I have you take me home. Close your eyes." 

And John did. 

\-----

John slipped back into his clothes a half hour later and followed Sherlock down to his car. They drove in comfortable silence until they got close to the address Sherlock had given him. 

"I don't usually date men." John said, voice coming out choked. 

"Is that what we're doing, John Watson, formerly of the North Umberland fusiliers?" Sherlock purred. 

John huffed out a surprised gust of air and shook his head. "I don't know. Do you...would you be interested in that?" 

"I'd think you would want to get to know me a bit more before you made that decision." Sherlock replied. 

"Yeah, I'd have thought so too." John said with a confused grin. 

"Fine then. I have to warn you though, I'm a bit of a handful." Sherlock said truthfully. 

"Yeah, I got that much." 

"And I'm a bit secretive. If that bothers you it would be best to know now. I don't do full on emotional attachment, but I wouldn't mind being exclusive for now."

"For now?" John asked. 

"We'll see." Sherlock said with a sly smile. 

John laughed again as his stomach fluttered over the confident man, and pulled up to the kerb. 

"Well, goodnight Sherlock." He said quietly. 

Sherlock pulled John's mobile from his pocket and quickly entered his own number. 

"That might help." He said flatly. 

"Yeah, thanks." John said a he watched the young man close the door and walk up to a tall building. 

He drove away and Sherlock pulled out his mobile to catch a cab back to his actual home. That had been fun.


	2. Blur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go on a second date. Their are blow jobs and a case and both are left feeling empty. 
> 
> Trigger warnings:  
> Dead dog  
> Drug use

When Sherlock walked through the front doors of the mansion he ran directly into his brother. He looked up shocked and then brushed off his sleeves and took a step back. 

"You smell like a whore." Mycroft said. "Bed your new man tonight, yes?"  
"You really should watch your language, brother. What would mummy think?" Sherlock said snidely. "And yes, I was successful in my seduction. The fact that you aren't disgusted by the thought of me in bed is a bit suspicious." 

"The disgust is there, believe me, I'm just concerned for you. Which is perfectly normal I suppose. You do bring that out in people, concern." Mycroft replied, taking a sip of his bourbon and sniffing once loudly. 

Sherlock took the glass forcefully and drank down the rest before pushing it back into Mycroft's hand. 

"There's nothing to worry about. I can take care of myself." Sherlock said with a smirk. "Besides, he's broken. Lost most of his will to live in the army. He's no threat to me." 

"You miss my meaning, Sherlock. I'm not worried for you. Someday this slew of lovers you spurn will come back to haunt you. Someday you'll want to keep one and you'll be in too deep." Mycroft replied, moving out of the foyer and walking away. 

"That sounds an awful lot like sentiment, Mycroft." Sherlock called after his brother's retreating form. 

"Human nature, Sherlock." Mycroft sang. 

"I'm not human!" Sherlock hissed. 

\-----

The next three days John went as usual to the library without seeing Sherlock. He thought about texting him once or twice but didn't want to come across as clingy this early on in a...what even was this? He'd started out wanting to just get a leg over, but the more he thought about the dark haired young man the more he wanted to know. 

Why didn't he tell John his last name? How had he known John's? How had he known about John's time in the army? Sure there was the bullet wound and he still had a bit of a limp, but he'd named John's regiment. 

On the fourth day he decided he'd waited enough and typed out a message on his mobile. He tried for casual but was sure it came across awkwardly. That was the problem with texting, emotion was lost. 

HEY, HOW HAVE YOU BEEN? JW

He received a message back several minutes later. 

IN THE MIDDLE OF A CASE. MEET ME AT TEN. SH

An address was sent a few minutes later and John turned the phone over in his hands. A Case? What could that possibly mean? 

\-----

At ten John walked through the front door of a large Chinese restaurant to find Sherlock already waiting in a back booth. He waded through the large group of people and sat down next to the young man. 

"Crowded." He said. 

"Yes, there's a salesman's lecture at the hotel next door. The place will be packed for the next few days." Sherlock said. 

A man came to their table and John ordered hot and sour soup and some cashew chicken. Sherlock just asked for some tea and sat back against the booth with his arms crossed. 

"So...case? What's that about?" John asked as he started on his soup. 

"I consult for the met. They only let me on a few cases, and it's not properly legal, but they need me." Sherlock said arrogantly. 

John pulled a face and Sherlock went on. 

"I can tell things, about people. I see and extrapolate and can explain motives and causes of death. They haven't let me work on a murder yet, but it's only a matter of time." Sherlock replied. 

"Is that how you knew about my military service? You looked?" John asked, taking another sip and raising his eyebrows. 

"I could tell about your military service by the way you stood and the cleanliness of your flat. The scar on your shoulder and the way you make your bed." Sherlock said leaning in close and causing goosebumps on John's neck. "I knew of your regiment from a little research I did on you based on the information contained in your notebook. It was hardly difficult." 

John set his spoon down and turned to face Sherlock. "You're a bloody genius, aren't you?" 

Sherlock sat back a bit with a blank look on his face. "Yes. Technically." 

"Brilliant." John said with a snort. 

"You think so?" Sherlock asked. 

John nodded and picked his spoon back up. "What do people usually think?" 

"That I'm a creep." Sherlock said with the first genuinely gentle smile John had seen on him yet. 

John finished his soup as Sherlock poured himself a small cup green tea and the waiter brought the cashew chicken. 

"If you don't eat some of this I might have to strangle you." John said, passing a pair of chopsticks to Sherlock. 

"And what if I liked that?" Sherlock deadpanned. 

"Eat." John replied, taking a bite and chewing happily. 

Sherlock took a small bite himself and seemed to loosen a bit, leaning comfortably against the booth now and breathing deeply. 

"So what was this case about, then?" John asked after a while. 

"Small store, armed theft. They were having trouble with it because they couldn't make out the clues right in front of them." Sherlock replied, looking at a cashew suspiciously before popping it into his mouth. 

"And you could. So who did it?" John asked as he pushed another cashew Sherlock's way. 

"It was a sham. The owners were in on it. The store wouldn't stay afloat, so they tried to get the insurance money." Sherlock said, taking the cashew. "The father broke down and admitted he'd set it up when I accused the son." 

"Amazing!" John said with a grin. "So they arrested him?" 

"Yeah, sentiment, always gets you in the end." Sherlock said smugly. 

John frowned at his plate and wondered who'd hurt this young man enough to convince him that simply caring for people would cause your downfall. 

Another large group of loud men and women burst through the door and we're seated a few tables away. The room was filled with loud voices and plates being harassed by chopsticks and forks and John thought he might need to step out for a bit when Sherlock surprised him again. 

"You don't even have to be too quiet." The young man said as he took a sip of his tea and began unbuttoning John's jeans. 

"Jesus." John hissed. 

Sherlock smirked and lowered the zip. "See, no one noticed." 

John breathed steadily through his nose as Sherlock slipped his hand into his pants and grasped his bollocks. The groan in the back of his throat was covered by the growing din. 

"Someday I'd like to fuck you at work. We'll have to work you up to that, I think. You can whimper all you like here, but in the stacks you'll have to be near silent." Sherlock said, moving his way up to John's quickly stiffening cock. "Would you like that? To have to be completely quiet while I pump into you? I can be quite rough, but you know that, don't you?" 

"Yes." John hissed. 

He reached his hand to Sherlock's thigh but Sherlock shook his head. 

"We'll take care of me later. For now I want you to sit there and enjoy this." Sherlock purred. 

John nodded shortly and Sherlock went back to picking out the cashews with one hand and stroking John with the other. John pushed a piece of chicken around the plate as Sherlock finally wrapped his hand tightly around his prick and started to pull slowly, thumb pressing against the cockhead on every upstroke. 

The waiter walked up and set down the bill as Sherlock ran his thumb around the head quickly. John made a strangled sound and the man turned around. 

"The tea was-ah-very good!" John said with an almost manic grin. 

The man nodded and walked away. 

"You almost lost it there, John. Are you getting close?" Sherlock asked. 

John nodded and lifted his glass to his lips, holding it there and trying not to spill. Sherlock let go of John's cock and slipped below the booth. John's breath caught in his throat as Sherlock pushed between his legs and took his cock deep into his mouth. 

John picked up the bill and fidgeted with it while Sherlock started bobbing his head and rolling his bollocks in his hand. It was soon too much and John pushed his hips up slightly and crushed the bill in his fist as he came down Sherlock's throat. He felt a blush moving up his neck as Sherlock bobbed slowly and then pulled off to tuck him back in. 

No one seemed to notice as Sherlock redid John's flies and smoothly moved back up to the seat. Sherlock winked at John and tossed a note down to pay for their food then led John out of the building. They made it to the alley before either spoke. 

"You could have got us arrested!" John said, body showing signs of exhaustion but not anger. 

"I know the owner. He'd look over a little thing like that." Sherlock said with a smirk. 

John reached forward to grab Sherlock's crotch but the younger man gripped his wrist. 

"Not yet. Take me back to your place." He purred. 

John nodded and followed him out to the street where they got into John's car and made their way back to his flat. 

Once inside Sherlock started removing his clothes and leaving a trail of them to John's bedroom. John followed and did the same until they were laying on the bed kissing roughly. Sherlock gripped his arse and rubbed his erection against his leg. 

"Can I suck you?" John asked, voice once again desperate. 

Sherlock suckled on his bottom lip and nodded before backing away. John lay on his back and motioned for Sherlock to crawl up him. Sherlock sighed deeply and grinned before climbing up John so his cock was hanging right over his face. John stroked him once before lifting his head up and taking him between his lips. 

"Christ, that's good!" Sherlock moaned. "Suck harder, a little teeth." 

John obeyed and used more suction, dragging his teeth lightly across the shaft as Sherlock began to thrust shallowly. John reached up and beckoned him deeper with short fingernails dug into his arsecheeks. 

"Oh, fuck!" Sherlock gasped as he quickened his movements. 

John ran a finger down his cleft and...Sherlock's mobile rang. 

"Son of a bitch!" Sherlock shouted as he pulled his prick free and all but jumped off the bed to get to his trousers. 

John rested up on his elbows and watched the man answer angrily. 

"What do you want? I was getting sucked off!" He shouted into the phone. 

He nodded twice, running fingers through his hair and then rested the phone between his ear and shoulder as he quickly slipped into his pants and trousers. 

"Yeah, five minutes. No. No. No. I've got a ride." He said before ringing off. 

He slipped into his shirt and deft fingers did up the buttons as he wiggled his feet into his shoes. He stuck the discarded socks in his pocket and tucked his shirt in before looking around the room. He was still breathing hard when his eyes fell on John. 

"Well, get dressed. I need a ride." He said with a small smile. 

John sat up all the way and sighed deeply. "Where are we off to, then?" He asked as he got up to put on his clothes. 

"Crime scene!" Sherlock said with a grin. 

\-----

John pulled up to what was indeed a crime scene and let the car idle. 

"I'll probably see you tomorrow." Sherlock said before slipping out of the car. 

John sat, feeling his stomach sink, and was about to put the car in drive when Sherlock ran back over to his window. He rolled it down and stuck his head out. 

"You were an army medic." Sherlock said with a glint in his eye. 

"I was." John agreed. 

"You know the basics of medicine. You could probably figure out cause of death." Sherlock added. 

"Definitely." John replied. 

"Well, come one, then." Sherlock said with a smirk. 

John put the car in park and turned it off. He hopped out and followed Sherlock to the opening of an alley and right up to the yellow caution tape. There was a young woman standing with a radio, looking them up and down. 

"What do you want, pipsqueak?" She teased. 

"I'm here to look at the crime scene." Sherlock said confidently. 

"Yeah, crime scene." She said with a snort. 

Sherlock ducked under the tape and held it up for John. 

"Oi!" She shouted. "Who's the chaperone?" 

"This is my friend John Watson. He examined quite a few dead bodies when he was in the army." Sherlock spit. 

John nodded slightly at the woman and then followed Sherlock into the large building. He didn't like being called Sherlock's friend, but they'd really only been on two dates, and had spent most of their time shagging so it probably wasn't appropriate to be called his boyfriend. He just kept his head lowered and jogged after Sherlock through a long maze of corridors. 

They finally came to a large open area and a blood soaked floor with a body under a sheet. A scrawny man was collecting fingerprints from a windowsill when they walked up. He turned around and rolled his eyes. 

"You made it. Anderson, give us a moment." A voice to their left said. 

The scrawny man left the room with a huff and a handsome man with prematurely greying hair walked out of the shadows. John fell into parade's rest as the man, who was obviously in charge, walked forward. 

"Who's this?" He asked. 

"He's with me." Sherlock said. 

The man sighed and pointed to the body. 

"There was a break in a few hours ago. No one was here except for this guy. We think it was poison." The detective said. 

Sherlock knelt and pulled the sheet back to reveal a large dog. 

"A dog? A bloody dog, Lestrade?" Sherlock shouted. 

John thought he heard laughing down the hall. 

"I can't pull you in on humans yet, you know that. This is the third break-in where the dog was the only one home. If you don't want to be a part of it you can leave." The man intoned. 

Sherlock waved him off with a huff and slipped on a pair of gloves. He motioned John closer and opened the dog's eyes. John put on a pair of gloves as well and looked closely as the detective walked away. 

"Idiots. Can't solve the killing of a dog. Christ. Hold this." Sherlock said, passing a swab over and running another along the dogs tongue. 

John took the swab and watched as Sherlock maneuvered the dogs body this way and that. 

"You're not going to leave. I thought you were interested in actual murders." John said, looking sadly at the dog. 

Sherlock looked pointedly up at John, who was absent stroking the dog's muzzle. 

"I'm interested in mysteries. This is a mystery." Sherlock said, ducking his head down and then quietly adding, "And people who hurt animals should be hanged." 

John smiled sadly at that. He'd worked with several bomb sniffing dogs in the field and had a cat growing up. Animals were just like children to him; innocent and in need of care. He'd have no problem seeing someone beaten for this. No problem at all. 

\-----

Three and a half hours later they had someone in custody thanks to Sherlock's diagnosis of acute bromethalin rodenticide toxicity, rat poison to the rest of us, and a clever combing of garbage bins in the surrounding area. The idiot had been tossing the things he didn't want from the housebreakings as well as empty rat poison boxes in his own bin. 

John and Sherlock sat side by side on the kerb as the man was taken away. Sherlock had been grinning wildly and was now tired from the sudden lack of adrenalin and resting against John's shoulder. 

"That was amazing. All that from a swab and some bins." John said with a smile. 

"The dog bit off part of its own tongue. There were classic signs of seizure, you saw them yourself." Sherlock said. 

"And yet you managed to put it all together." John added. 

"And now I'm bloody tired." Sherlock said. 

"Come home with me. Spend the night. I'll make us breakfast in bed." John said gently. 

"I can't." Sherlock said, suddenly sitting up and tapping away at his mobile. 

John cleared his throat a bit and sat up straighter as well. "Okay. Do you need-" 

"I'll catch a cab." Sherlock interrupted. 

John nodded and stood. He looked back once before walking to his car. He drove home quickly and climbed the stairs to his flat. It was only when he finally climbed under the covers that he finally felt it; the emptiness, the hurt. He didn't understand. It was amazing working with Sherlock, following him around and listening to him spout off brilliant ideas. He felt this almost tangible connection, like the bit of spark he'd been looking for since he'd been sent home was dangling right in front of him. 

Then it was over. The adrenalin burning dry in his veins and leaving him feeling foolish and alone. Feeling stupid for thinking Sherlock would want to come home with him, spend the night in his arms. Feeling stupid for once again wearing his heart on his sleeve. Once again being so bloody obvious. 

\-----

Sherlock walked home. It took two hours, but he walked. He'd wanted to go home with John, wanted to wake up next to him. Why had he wanted that? Pathetic. He'd just solved a case! He should be bouncing off the walls and getting sucked off in some hotel room, but instead he was walking home feeling like he might vomit. Feeling empty. 

He climbed up the terrace to his room and slipped in through the balcony. He sat on the floor next to the window and popped open a bottle of pills. The small dish and spoon were fished out of the false front on the desk and he crushed a few pills slowly. The bits got smaller and smaller under the back of the spoon until the dish was covered in a fine white powder. 

He thought of John as he pushed it back and forth a bit before shoving a bump onto his hand. He breathed it in and pressed the palm of his hand to his nostrils as it stung. One more bump and he licked the rest from the plate. He groaned a bit and let he head tilt back, waiting for his mind to blur.


	3. What If I Like It A Lot?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock asks for John's help. He really doesn't like where this is going. 
> 
> Hesitant fluff abounds.

The next day when Sherlock got to the library John was nowhere to be found. He asked Molly if she'd seen him but she hadn't. He spent the whole evening looking up from what he was doing and being disappointed. On his way home he pulled his mobile out and typed up several text messages. 

I'M SORRY ABOUT LAST NIGHT. SH 

I NEED TO SEE YOU. SH

I MISS YOU. SH

CALL ME. SH

He never sent any of them. Instead he went home and listened to music as loud as he could manage. When his brother knocked on his door he didn't answer. He didn't need to see the look of disappointment on his face. 

\-----

At eight the next day Sherlock walked around the corner and found John studying. He stood and stared for a few minutes before getting up the nerve to talk to him. He really didn't want to give away how much he longed for John's attention, how much he needed to be told (in the astonished voice) that he was brilliant. 

"John." He said at length. "I could use your assistance tonight...if you're amenable." 

John looked up and smiled almost shyly. Sherlock felt affection. Strange. Usually all he felt was attraction, but this was notably different. Instead of the heat pooling in his abdomen he felt a kind of outward tugging at his chest. 

"Yeah. I'm almost done." John replied. 

Sherlock nodded quickly and walked away. When he made it to the break room he closed himself in the closet and hit his head against the wall. Not enough to knock himself out, just enough to cause the fluttering to stop. 

"Stupid. Stupid. Stupid." He chanted angrily. 

When he came out he found Molly standing with her mouth open and a flush covering her cheeks. He scowled and took a seat at the table. She came and sat next to him timidly. 

"What's wrong?" She asked. 

"I have a boyfriend." He said bitterly. 

"And...that's a bad thing?"

"I've never had one before and it's becoming...compromising." He said. 

"Is he asking you to do something you-" She began, obviously thinking of sexual coercion. 

"No. No. Nothing like that." He interrupted. 

"Then what...if you don't mind me asking."

"I'm looking for something casual and he's..." He let his head fall to the table with a frightening thump. 

"Could you just tell him you don't want to be his boyfriend?"

"But I do!" Sherlock whined, letting the last word drag out pitifully. 

"And you...don't want to?"

"No! Obviously. I don't need to be feeling these...FEELINGS!" He growled. "Why am I even telling you this?" 

"I-I don't know." Molly replied. 

Sherlock let his head rest for a moment before lifting it. After a few minutes of staring into the air without speaking Molly took her leave, but not before saying she would always listen. This only made him feel worse. Weak. 

John came to the doorway a while later and slung his rucksack over his shoulder. "You ready to go?" 

Sherlock nodded solemnly and walked out the door with him. They passed Molly on their way out and she bit her lip and blushed. 

"Your place or-" John began. 

"Yours." Sherlock bit out a little too forcefully. 

"Okay, that's fine." John replied. 

They got in the car and Sherlock stared resolutely out the window the whole drive. John was nervous. After the way he'd been brushed off the other night and Sherlock's mercurial mood he didn't know what to expect when they made it to his flat. 

Once they were parked Sherlock followed him almost as if he was going to the gallows. John opened the fridge and got out a beer for himself. He offered one to Sherlock, but the young man refused. 

"So. What can I help you with?" John asked, sitting next to Sherlock on the sofa and sipping his beer. 

"I've got a case. It's a bit tricky. The other night..." He trailed off and John raised his eyebrows, taking another pull from his beer and then setting it down. 

"The other night?" He asked calmly. 

Sherlock's lip curled and he looked out the window. "The-other-night-working-with-you-was-really-good-and-made-my-deductions-easier-and-now-I-want-you-to-just-listen-because-you-center-my-thoughts-and-no-one-else-can-do-that-but-my-skull." He said in an agitated gust. 

"Your...skull?" John asked. 

"Yes." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as if it were obvious. "I have a human skull that I sometimes talk to. It helps to have something to talk to that doesn't say idiotic things. You're the exception." 

John chuckled lightly and picked his beer back up. "So I say idiotic things, but you don't mind." 

"Exactly." Sherlock huffed. 

"Well, go on then." John said with a soft smile. 

\-----

Over the next hour Sherlock told John all about the case he was working on. There were missing jewels and false identities and a lot of other exciting things. John felt his heart pumping as Sherlock relayed the tail of chasing down the erstwhile brother in law. 

"And then he produced a knife. There was a scuffle and he got away." Sherlock said at last, slumping back against the sofa and suddenly taking the beer from John. 

John chuckled and went to get himself another. He sat back down next to Sherlock and the young man did something new. He rested his body against John's and sighed against his neck. John wrapped and arm around him cautiously and took a pull from his drink. 

"You didn't have police backup, I take it." He said. 

"It was a private case. They didn't want the police involved just yet. I ended up having to hand it over to Lestrade after the man tried to assault me. Pity."

After a few minutes of silence John cleared his throat and grabbed the remote control. 

"Do you want to watch something?" He asked softly. 

"I won't like it." Sherlock replied with a petulant sniff. 

"Is that a no?" John asked. 

Sherlock shrugged so John turned the telly on and flipped the channels until he found an old episode of Doctor Who. They sat in companionable silence as John finished his beer and Sherlock eventually wrapped around him like an octopus. 

When the show was over John switched off the telly and put down the remote. 

"I have a class early tomorrow. I should get to sleep." He said, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. 

Sherlock fisted his shirt and refused to reply. 

"You could stay." John said softly. 

"I probably won't sleep." Sherlock replied. 

"You could just...lay with me."

"You wouldn't think that was...weird?"

"Weird? Maybe. Not unappealing though." John replied with a gentle kiss to Sherlock's forehead. 

"I don't really want sex tonight." Sherlock said. 

"That's fine."

Sherlock sighed and let go of John's shirt long enough for him to stand and then held it on his way to John's bedroom. John let him peel the shirt off and take a turn in the loo before brushing his teeth, relieving himself and settling next to Sherlock on the bed. Sherlock was already down to his pants. 

He stripped off his jeans, shoes and socks and climbed under the covers. Sherlock hesitated and John patted the bed next to him. The young man rolled his eyes and slipped under the duvet. At first he didn't touch John, but soon he was back to covering John with all four of his limbs. 

"Goodnight Sherlock." John whispered. 

Sherlock was silent for a few second before speaking softly. 

"I've never done this, sharing a bed with someone. What do I do if I don't like it?" He asked. 

"Then you don't have to do it again." John replied. 

"What if I like it a lot?"

John laughed gently. "Then we can do it again." 

Sherlock didn't reply, just nuzzled against John and breathed evenly as John fell asleep.


	4. Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after Sherlock finds out new things about John.

There was light streaming in through the window and John was making little sounds and beginning to stretch. Sherlock closed his eyes and feigned sleep as John woke up, hoping that he would get another few minutes to hold him before reality settled in. The reality that John had to leave and Sherlock appeared weak.

John kissed his forehead and carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock held on tighter and refused to open his eyes. It was just as it was the night before; he didn't want to let go. Letting go of John was making him almost manic with anxiety.

"Sherlock, I've gotta get up and shower. Will you join me?" John asked, drawing himself away.

Sherlock opened his eyes at last and John was beaming down at him. He sighed and got out of bed after John, following him to the loo and waiting as the water got hot. When it did he drew off his pants and hopped under the spray.

"Did you get any sleep?" John asked as he squeezed toothpaste onto his brush and stuck it in his mouth.

"Some." Sherlock said with a strange look.

"What?" John asked with a mouth full of foam.

"Can I borrow your toothbrush when you're done?" He asked.

John nodded, brushed and rinsed his mouth with hot water (something Sherlock found disgusting). He put more toothpaste on the brush and handed it over. Sherlock started brushing his teeth and watching John as water sluiced down his skin and he wet a flannel.

"I have to leave, but not for a bit. I can make us breakfast if you want. I have bacon and toast." John said while running the flannel over his tanned skin.

"You aren't wearing your glasses." Sherlock said in response, or rather to avoid response.

"I only need them to read...and we're in the shower." John said with a smile. "Turn around and I'll wash your hair."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I'm very particular-"

"Turn. Around. And I'll wash your hair." John said again, voice suddenly powerful in a way Sherlock was not used to.

Sherlock turned around and let John spread sweet smelling shampoo through his hair, closing his eyes as it was massaged into his scalp. It felt so good that Sherlock was embarrassed when a small moan fell from his lips. John chuckled and slipped around him so he could rinse his hair.

"You're kind of adorable when you're surprised." He said.

Sherlock looked completely offended. "I'm never surprised-"

It was cut off with a full moan as John gripped his bollocks and rolled them gently in his hand.

"See? Adorable." He whispered against Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock let out a little 'ha' and rolled his hips so their cocks slipped together. John moved his hands to Sherlock's arse and pulled him close, standing on his tiptoes so the friction could grow. Sherlock got the idea and stood with his feet further apart and it was wondrous.

"You liked it when I-Oh-when I ordered you. Bet no one has the guts to do that. You act so confident. Christ." John mumbled as he thrust his hips and ran his teeth along Sherlock's neck.

"I-oh-admit to...nothing!" Sherlock said as he felt John reach a hand between them and run his thumb over the head of his prick.

"Turn and face the wall. Now." John said in that voice that grew goosebumps on Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock did it and John pushed his legs together and slipped a hand around to encircle his cock. He thrust once with a low whine and John slapped his arse. John kissed the back of his neck and started stroking him in earnest. Sherlock was usually in control of himself enough to last quite a while but now, with John all around him, he felt his orgasm aproaching.

"I think I'm going to, of fuck, oh fuck." He mumbled.

"Come." John said.

That one word had Sherlock coming hard into John's hand as the older man caught all of it and slicked his own prick with it. He slipped his cock between Sherlock's thighs and moaned loudly. Sherlock, who was still dazed and covered in wonderful pin pricks put his hands on the wall and pressed his legs tighter together.

"Oh, that's good. Fuck!" John groaned as he thrust his hips, pushing his cock between those beautiful thighs and feeling the rough hairs of Sherlock's bullocks on its head.

He wrapped his hands around Sherlock and pushed his chest up against his back. He thrust harder and buried his face in Sherlock's back, gripping his shoulders and rocking on the balls of his feet.

"John." Sherlock murmured as he flexed his thighs.

John came, hips stuttering and prick shooting come between Sherlock's legs and onto the tile wall.

"Jesus. Oh, that was good. Fuck." He whimpered as he thrust a few more times before resting against Sherlock's back.

Sherlock chuckled and rested his head against the wall. John kissed his back before stepping back on weak legs and grabbing the body wash. They didn't take long to clean up and get out.

John stuck two pieces of bread in the toaster after he'd dried his hair and wrapped a towel around his waist.

"Are you sure you don't want bacon?" He asked as Sherlock dried himself and got into his clothes.

"Yes. I'd go for tea, though." Sherlock replied from the bedroom.

John filled the kettle and switched it on before walking back to the bedroom and going to his chest of drawers. He pulled out a pair of pants and socks then went to the closet and took out a suit. Sherlock looked at him questioningly as he slipped on a blue plaid button up.

"What?" John asked.

"Nothing. It's just...why are you wearing a suit to class?" He asked.

"I'm not going to class, I'm teaching it. You have to teach during the master's program." John buttoned the shirt and pulled on his pants and socks.

Sherlock tried not to look slack jawed. Luckily John was putting his clothes on and didn't see him staring on in fascination.

"What subject do you teach?" He asked.

"What? You can't tell?" John asked with a wry smile. "English."

"But...that doesn't help with your degree..." Sherlock whispered, almost to himself.

"My ENGLISH degree? I'd bloody well hope it did." John laughed.

"But...you're supposed to be a doctor." Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes. "You've been talking to my mother, haven't you?" He teased.

Sherlock was blown away. How could his deductions have been so wrong? How could he have been so off base? He'd seen John, capable John, and he'd seen a doctor. John was a medic in the army and now he was supposed to become a doctor. What about his-

"What about your thesis? What about all the studying you've been doing at the library? It's all to do with cancer." Sherlock spouted.

"Thesis?" John asked. "I'm writing a book, not a thesis. The main character has cancer. I wanted to get it right."

John wrapped a tie around his neck and Sherlock snorted.

"Yes?" John asked with his hands on his hips.

Sherlock stood and went to the closet, searching for a moment and coming back out with a different tie. He loosened the other one and removed it while John stood with a small smile on his face.

"That one doesn't work. It makes your eyes look too...brown." Sherlock said, deftly wrapping the new tie around his neck and perfecting the knot.  
"Good thing I have a posh boyfriend to fix it." John said.

"Yes." Sherlock agreed. "Good thing."

\-----

After breakfast was eaten and John had collected all his things they walked down the stairs and out into the chilly morning air. It was the kind of continuous autumn that made John think of his childhood and picking apples from his family's trees. He wanted to get a cup of spiced cider and curl under the covers with Sherlock and read.

"Do you need a ride?" He asked.

"I'll get a cab. Will you be at the library tonight? Researching for your book?" Sherlock asked in return.

"Yeah. About seven. See you then?"

Sherlock nodded and stepped onto the kerb. John got into his car and started it, driving away just as Sherlock entered a ubiquitous black cab.

"I'll give you fifty quid to follow that car without being suspicious." Sherlock said to the cabbie.

The man gave him a look that said 'yeah, right' so Sherlock handed him the bill.

"Go." He added.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's suit is modeled by the magnificent Ewan McGregor.


	5. Falling For Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock follows John to school and Mycroft catches onto his brothers crush.

The cabbie pulled up just outside the school grounds as John's car wound through the teacher's entry. Sherlock thanked the man and slipped from the car, pulling his coat tight around him and standing in the shade of an old oak as John parked and got his things from the boot.   
He watched John take a deep breath and make his way onto campus. 

He'd been on this campus before, Molly was attending a few programs here and he'd sulked along to get to see some corpse or another. He'd always thought of it as a teaching hospital before a university, but apparently it was both. John slipped through a side door and he followed after. 

His opportunity showed itself when John made it to the lecture hall and another teacher spoke to him before he opened the door. Sherlock walked in the second door and made his way up to the back of the room, sitting at the side in the darkest area and watching patiently as the thirty or so students found their seats. John walked in a few minutes later and took his place at the podium. The other teacher entered with him and sat to the side. 

"Good morning, class! Who do I have to punish for missing their reading?" John asked jovially. 

A boy in the front row blushed slightly and raised his hand. 

"Mr Simmons, you'll read aloud for us today to make up for it. How about you begin on chapter ten?" John said calmly. 

The boy began reading as everyone opened their books and John took a seat. They were reading from a book Sherlock wasn't familiar with, something about dealing with the death of a family member in times of poverty. He wasn't interested in the least. His interest lay in John, who had put on his glasses and was reading along silently. 

When the boy was finally done John set his book aside and went to the whiteboard. He scrawled a few key words and turned to give the boy a short but friendly nod. 

"Who wants to dissect the first paragraph? The words we lead with are always important." John said, looking over his glasses at the room. 

Sherlock thought he'd be found out as John's eyes moved upwards but a girl near the front raised her hand and saved him from discovery. She said a few things that Sherlock paid no attention to and John noted them on the board. 

The whole class went this way; John asking a question and students happily responding. Things weren't like this with many teachers, Sherlock knew, as John seemed so at ease with it. It obviously wasn't the first class session to go so smoothly. John had something about him that made the students want to participate. They were bloody LAUGHING at his horrible jokes. 

The time went by quickly and before he knew it John was giving out homework and telling everyone to have a good few days. The boy, Simmons, who had raised his hand at the start, stayed behind as well as a few other students. The second teacher shook John's hand and left. 

"Mr Watson. I'm sorry I didn't do the reading." The Simmons boy said. 

John looked at him with a wrinkled brow and a soft smile. "The baby keeping you up?" He asked. 

"Yes, sir. My sis is having trouble again at work and-" The boy began. 

John stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. "Give your sister my love. Things are rough now but I'm sure they'll smooth out. If you ever need someone to talk to, you have my number." 

The boy nodded sheepishly, grabbed his things and left. 

Next a tall girl walked to the front and handed John a stack of papers. John face lit up and he looked through them. 

"You finished it! I'm so proud of you, Julie! I'll read through it tonight and have comments for you Friday." He said. 

She grinned, stupidly if you asked Sherlock, and gave John a small hug before leaving the lecture hall herself and closing the door. 

A slim boy (no, a slim man Sherlock thought) approached John next, leaning against the podium and talking in a low Rumble that Sherlock couldn't hear. 

"None the less." John replied. "I am faculty." 

Sherlock could tell John was getting uncomfortable as the man rested a hand on John's bicep and chuckled lightly. John shook the hand off and started putting things back in his rucksack. He left the room with the thin man tailing him. 

Sherlock was actually shaking. The gall of that man! How dare he treat John like a piece of meat he was allowed to touch. How dare he treat his John-oh, well, that's not good. He was already thinking of John as his. His to protect, his to defend. 

He got up as the thought slushed around in his stomach and walked to the front of the room. After checking the hall he made his way out to the front of the campus to head home. A taxi came after ten or so minutes and he got in and slammed the door. 

\-----

"William Sherlock Holmes!" His mother cried as he walked through the door. "I don't know whether to whip you for staying out overnight without calling or commend you for actually finding a boyfriend." 

"Who said anything about a boyfriend?" He asked haughtily. 

Mycroft walked around the corner sporting a sharkish grin and Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to push past the two of them. Mycroft blocked him and attempted to look innocent. 

"We were worried about you, brother. Perhaps you should bring your new boy to dinner." He teased. 

Mummy clapped her hands and chirped happily. "Yes! Let's set up a dinner date!" 

Sherlock dodged Mycroft at last and stomped up to his room. He slammed the door and went out to the balcony for a smoke. A little while later, when his blood didn't feel like it was boiling anymore, there was a knock at his door. 

"Go away." He said petulantly. 

Mycroft opened the door and slipped in, sitting on the edge of his bed and picking at his nails. 

"I'll be gone by the end of the week. I think you should discuss moving out with mummy. You really need to get out on your own, Sherlock. You can't live here forever." Mycroft drawled. 

"I'm really getting sick of your meddling, Jenkins." Sherlock said with a wrinkled nose. 

"You're falling for him, aren't you?" Mycroft asked. 

"I've known him a week!" Sherlock scoffed. 

"You spent the night. Falling for him."

Sherlock gave him a scowl until he left the room and then curled up by the unlit fire and buried his face in a pillow.


	6. Better

John showed up at the library around six with an overflowing rucksack and a lot of work to do. He had to grade some papers and do more research for his novel, as well as read a screenplay one of his students had written for another class. He unpacked his things and started to set up his work space. He didn't see Sherlock right away, so he figured the younger man was busy and started correcting papers. 

Sherlock stood ten feet away in the stacks watching John. He was supposed to be shelving books, but he couldn't concentrate. When he saw John come in he had wanted to run up to him and touch him, leave some kind of mark on him, something. It made him feel ridiculous. He really shouldn't have been so bothered by all the physical contact between John and his students. 

He realised that he'd first thought John to be one of those quiet loner types that were starved of physical affection. He thought John was some shy student who spent all his time studying and never really connecting with people. He thought perhaps he'd found a kindred soul. He used to be like that, alone and desperate for attention. The virgin, the introvert. 

He still was an introvert, and spent most of his time by himself, but he'd changed. His last growth spurt had made him fairly irresistible to a certain type of older man; the kind that buys you things and tries to own you, the kind that doesn't really give a shit what you want. After that extra foot of height he found that he could waltz into any gay club and take someone home. Well, not his home, that went without saying. 

It had worked, damn it! It had worked quite well! He didn't need to stick around the next day, didn't need to try to make conversation. He'd let these men do what they wanted, get nice things and sex in return, and then turn them loose before they got to close. It was perfect. Sentiment was useless. Useless. 

But John. John wasn't what he'd thought and it was making him more than a bit apprehensive. Once John realised that Sherlock was pretty much a one trick pony he'd leave. Sherlock knew he wasn't easy to be with. He wasn't an idiot, after all. He was abrasive and demanding and a shut in most of the time. His interests were the perverse, the bizarre, the wicked. He cared about decay and death and rates at which people turn into puddles. 

But John. John was caring and kind. He was trying to humanize a character with cancer, not describe the way their body would wither. He was a teacher, not just spouting truth but offering guidance. He was someone who gave all he could for his country and then came back to give more. He was strong and solid and he would grow tired of the cold child that Sherlock knew he really was. He was a child. 

All Sherlock could do was watch as John was drawn away from him. The sex would be great for a while but he was shite at conversation and John would grow weary of his mercurial moods. He would meet someone more like him, a healer, a helper. He would fall in love and Sherlock would be alone again. As he sat there breathing quietly and watching John laugh while reading the screenplay of one of his students he knew that was where it would happen; on the campus. That's where John would be lost to him. 

\-----

Two hours later John set down his notebook and looked at his watch. He wondered where Sherlock could be, as he hadn't seen him at all. Best to get up and stretch at least, can't let the damn leg start acting up again. He rose from his seat and wandered down the hall to the water fountain. 

"How was class?" A voice asked from behind him. 

John turned and smiled up at Sherlock. 

"Good. It went really well. I think they're starting to get the material." John said. 

"Are you sure they aren't faking it to impress you?" Sherlock asked a bit too sharply. 

John took a step back and his brow furrowed. 

"I'm not quite sure what you're getting at." John said hesitantly. 

He hadn't seen Sherlock like this before, eyes hard, all coiled strength and quiet regard. It unsettled him, hairs on his arms raising a bit in warning. 'Something's off', he thought. 

"No. I think you do." Sherlock said, taking a step forward. "You're someone to impress, John. I know that, you know that, I'm sure your students know that. You're what they call the full package. You've got the looks and the heart, bit more than necessary on occasion, but that's charming in itself." 

"Sherlock-" John choked out, watching as Sherlock looked him up and down and licked his lips. 

"A prize to be won." Sherlock added, drawing out the last word and taking another step. 

Sherlock reached around him and open the janitorial closet. John felt a chill run down his spine as Sherlock pushed him into the room. He watched Sherlock's face as the younger man closed the door and brought them into full darkness. The hot breath on John's neck was the only sign that Sherlock had moved. 

"Do you ever think about it, John? How they must see you? Not an old man, but an almost contemporary. Smart. Kind. Forgiving. Do you ever think about how many of them want to touch you?" Sherlock purred, resting his hands on John's hips lightly. 

"No." John lied. 

"I wouldn't suggest lying to me, John." Sherlock whispered as he licked up John's neck. 

"Okay. Okay. I've thought about it. It's something you-you have to consider." John said nervously, his prick taking note of Sherlock's movements. 

"But you won't let them touch you." Sherlock said, and it was very obviously not a question.

"No! God, no!" John replied, shivering as Sherlock undid is belt and flies. 

"And why is that, John?" Sherlock prompted. 

"Because I'm yours." John said breathlessly. 

Sherlock hummed and his breath was gone from John's neck. John felt his hand all the way in his pants, pulling his cock out so it was in the cool air. 

"Tell me again." Sherlock growled. 

John choked a bit because the demand was uttered so close to his cock that he could feel the heat from it. 

"I'm yours. You-" John grunted. 

He was cut off when Sherlock suddenly surrounded his cock with wet, sucking heat. Sherlock bobbed his head quickly, almost vicious in his ministrations as he drew John into his mouth and then throat over and over again. Sherlock reached up and pulled lightly on his bollocks and it was suddenly too much. 

John came and bent over, heaving breaths wracking his body as Sherlock swallowed around the head of his cock and slowed his movements. 

"Fucking hell." He murmured. 

Sherlock pulled off with a loud smack and swiftly tucked him back in. 

"That was bloody insane." John said, standing up. 

Sherlock stood and ran his hand up the back of John's neck, pulling at his hair. 

"And what did we learn?" Sherlock asked. 

"That you're a jealous prick?" John answered teasingly. 

Sherlock pulled on his hair and John took in a quick breath. 

"And I'm hopelessly yours." John added. 

"Better." Sherlock whispered, opening the door and walking away.


	7. Addiction

John followed him down the hall and around the corner. They got John's things and left the library without another word, then got into John's car. Sherlock smirked as they made their way towards his flat. 

"So, what should we do tonight? Have you had dinner?" John asked. 

Sherlock shook his head dismissively and looked out the window as if he was thinking on something. They got to the flat in short order and Sherlock followed John up the stairs. There was a large note on John's door that the older man tore off and crumpled angrily. 

"Problems with your lodgings?" Sherlock asked after they'd both settled on the sofa. 

"Mmm. They're trying to freeze me out. I've got a year at a reduced rate and they want me gone. I can't afford to move." John said. 

Sherlock was once again quiet and John wondered what was on his mind. He ordered curry and naan without asking Sherlock if he wanted any and was able to get him to eat by putting the plate in his lap. John watched fondly as Sherlock scooped up the curry and ate without seeming to notice. 

A few hours later Sherlock glanced at his watch and and then over to John, who was sitting quietly reading. 

"Do you mind the violin?" He asked. 

"Hmm? Are you planning on playing for me?" John replied distractedly. 

"Yes or no?" Sherlock demanded. 

"No." 

"And you don't seem to mind me...wandering off mentally." Sherlock added. 

"No. What were you doing, anyhow?"

"Mind palace. It's a memory technique. Involves spacial placing. Sometimes I don't speak for days." 

"Really?"

"Yes. I don't sleep much, and you've seen my eating habits a bit." Sherlock said, looking down at the empty plate and his stained fingers. "Clever, by the way." 

"Thank you. What's this about?"

"We're moving in together."

"What? Do I have a say in this?" John asked, chuckling lightly. "You do realise you have to ASK someone to move in with you." 

"I just did." Sherlock said with a furrowed brow. 

"No. You asked whether I could put up with you. They're two different questions."

"Oh. Do you...do you want to move in with me?" Sherlock asked nervously. 

"Where's your flat?" 

"Centrally located. Two bedrooms. Large sitting room." Sherlock said quickly. 

"Hmm." John said, biting his lip. "I'll think on it." 

\-----

By the end of the week John had moves into 221b, a flat Sherlock had failed to mention he didn't actually live in yet. Sherlock sat on one of the large cardboard boxes and watched John carefully as he took his clothes out and placed them in the dresser. 

"I don't think we'll need two bedrooms. You've been sleeping in my bed for over a week now. Why don't we turn the upstairs one into a study?" John asked as he stuffed his socks in a small drawer. 

"Why do you do that?" Sherlock asked. 

"Do what?"

"Jam all yours socks in there without any discernable order?" 

"Do you organize yours or something?" John asked with a grin. 

Sherlock looked to the side, just then wondering if this wasn't generally done. 

"So. Two bedrooms or one?" John prodded. 

"One should suffice." Sherlock said before standing up and rushing out of the room. 

John heard two people arguing on the stairs and went to see what was going on. 

"Leave me alone." Sherlock hissed. "And no, you don't get to meet him." 

A tall ginger man looked up with a sniff and grinned in a predatory way. John didn't like him. He also has no idea who he was. 

"You must be John Watson." The man purred. 

Sherlock looked back with wide, almost frightened, eyes and watched as John descended the stairs. John stuck his hand out and Mycroft simply frowned at it. 

"Tell me, Mr Watson, what makes you think you're a suitable roommate for my brother?"

"Sorry, brother?" John asked. 

"Yes. Older brother. Bit protective." Mycroft replied with a loud sniff. 

"OVERprotective." Sherlock hissed. 

"Does my brother know the reason for your money troubles?" Mycroft asked, left edge of his mouth turning up slightly. 

John flushed and bit the inside of his cheek. 

"That's a no then." Mycroft replied, obviously satisfied with himself. "John here picked something up in the army. Not an STI, don't look at me like that. No. Something a bit more exciting; a small gambling addiction." 

"Stop, Mycroft." Sherlock hissed. 

"Well, it WAS small. Then he came back home and got bored." Mycroft added. 

John was sneering at the man now, ready to bolt at any moment. He had no reason to be telling anyone John's secrets. Well, reason, but not right. 

"And now it's got a bit out of hand. He's gambled away most of his inheritance, small as it was, and quite a lot of the money given to him by the military upon his dismissal. In fact...the only days he hasn't spent money gambling were the three following your first case together. I suggest you keep him busy, brother." Mycroft nodded and walked slowly down the stairs, umbrella tapping the steps along his way. 

"John." Sherlock said, looking shell shocked. 

John simply turned and fled to the sitting room. When Sherlock walked in he found John shaking, leaning against the sofa and holding his leg. 

"He's right, you know." He said gravely. 

"I don't care." Sherlock replied. "We all have our addictions." 

John scoffed and hobbled to the far chair. He sat and appraised the young man. "And what's yours?" 

"Bit of heroin and cocaine." Sherlock said, looking away and acting as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. 

John was quiet for a long time, looking at his shaking hand and thinking. Mycroft was right about everything. The gambling, the fact that it got worse after the army, the few days of reprieve from the only activity that kept him going. And that last thing had been due to Sherlock's brilliance alone.

"I'm going to make us some tea and you're going to make me a promise." John said, standing shakily and making his way to the kitchen. 

"I've never promised anything in my life." Sherlock replied.


	8. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock talk addiction.

John moved things from the kitchen table and set the tea up. Sherlock was currently pacing in front of the far will and chewing at his nails. The silence, it seemed, had done more damage to him than to John. John poured the steaming water slowly, breathing evenly and trying to force himself into some sort of calm. 

This was nothing new. John was adept at that sort of thing. He'd always been good at cards, and hiding your own feelings and reactions is what keeps him winning. He had to learn very young to hide how he was feeling, to act as though he didn't hear things being said, as if they didn't effect him.

His father took great offense to John disagreeing with him. It didn't even have to be a verbal disagreement. Sometimes he would come home angry and say something overly offensive and just watch John. Stare at him, note any change in his face or stance. 

'Something the matter, lad?', grew to be the most frightening statements in the English language. A simple 'no' was never enough. If he said it too quickly or with a downturned mouth his father would laugh cruely and strike him. So John learned to be stoic. He learned to be a perfectly placid lake. He learned how to stay quiet and steady his breathing and above all else, he learned to never show that he felt anything in front of the man. 

He was able now to turn on and off that side of himself at will. He could let people see his every feeling, and often did, or he could give them nothing to go on. One of the things he liked about being around Sherlock was the fact that he never felt the need to cover his emotions. He was allowed to wear his heart on his sleeve. 

"Sherlock, come sit." He said finally. 

Sherlock snapped from his distressed movements and walked to the kitchen, slumping into a seat and fidgeting with his cup. 

"How long have you been using?" John asked. 

Sherlock looked up at him suspiciously and bit his lip. After a moment he breathed a great sigh and physically unwound. 

"Two years." He replied honestly. 

"What made you start?" 

Sherlock took a sip of his tea and clenched his eyes closed. "Boredom." 

John was silent for a moment. It wasn't like he'd never experienced boredom so complete that he'd thought of losing himself in a substance. There was plenty of that in the army, then even more when he was sent home. Hours, days of it. Boredom so thick he could barely see his own hand in front of his face. Boredom so loud he couldn't hear the music coming from his headphones. 

"Does that seem laughable to you?" Sherlock asked bitterly. 

John realised he must have been quiet for some time and took a long sip of his tea to steady himself. 

"Not at all." He replied calmly. 

Sherlock seemed soothed enough by that to form his own question. 

"What about you? How much did you lose this month?" He asked. 

John ground his teeth and looked away. "Ten thousand pounds." 

Sherlock's eyes shot open. 

"I'm only under about three hundred pounds though, I made most of it back. Hell, I even got to keep my car." He said with a weak grin. 

"And it's cards, mostly. I should have known." Sherlock said, taking another sip of his drink. "How many days a week?" 

"Seven. Same question." John replied. 

"Two or three. It's fairly recreational at this point." 

"I don't know of anyone being recreationally addicted to herion." John said seriously. 

"I barely ever have to resort to heroin. It's only every once in a while that I need to come down."

"Do you think you could quit?" John asked. 

"If I had reason to." Sherlock whispered. 

"Would you try? If I asked you to?" John asked. 

"That's not generally how these things work." Sherlock replied. 

"What if you came to me when you were bored and I tried to help you?" John asked carefully. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm bored." 

"Oh. Now?" John asked. 

"Yes, now. Almost always." 

"Ok. Well, what turns it from uncomfortable to unbearable?"

"Questions like that." Sherlock replied. 

"Brat." John said with a small smile. 

Sherlock sat back and drank the rest of his tea. "I have to go get some of my things. Wasn't I supposed to be promising you something?" 

"Mmm." John said quietly. "Tell me when you're going to use." 

"Will you try to stop me?" Sherlock asked nervously. 

"No."

Sherlock watched him for some sign that it was a lie. For once John didn't have to school his expression. Sherlock nodded and stood. 

"Do you want to go alone?" John asked as Sherlock slipped into his greatcoat. 

"Yes. I'll be fine." Sherlock said, wrapping his scarf around his neck and heading down the stairs. 

John busied himself with cleaning up the tea and trying to figure out what to do for his next class. 

\-----

Sherlock sighed loudly as he walked through the doors to his room. He hadn't expected to find Mycroft sitting there on his bed, thinking he'd got his little bit of pot stirring out of his system and would go on his way. 

"What do you want?" He asked angrily. 

"You haven't told him, have you?" Mycroft asked, looking through Sherlock's mail. 

"I just told him. We had a talk. He doesn't care." Sherlock spit, staccato pacing showing how unhappy he was giving out that information. 

Mycroft looked up and then frowned. "That's not what I'm talking about. You haven't told him your age." 

"What does that matter? He doesn't care that I abuse cocaine, what will he care that I'm younger than he thinks I am?" Sherlock shot back. 

"It's not about what age he thinks you are, Sherlock. It's about what age you told him you were and the fact that whatever it was is a lie. How old are you pretending to be?"

"Twenty three." Sherlock said softly as he packed his suitcases. 

"And what made him think you're twenty three?"

"It's not my fault!" Sherlock said angrily. "He assumed I was twenty three. If that's what he wants from me how could he be angry that I gave that to him?" 

"Oh, Sherlock. You really don't understand, do you? The people who care about you want your truth. It's obvious the man cares deeply for you. To what end I don't know, none the less. He's twenty eight. I'm sure you know that. He won't be comfortable with your age difference, in all likelihood, and he'll hold it against you that you lied."

"So what?" Sherlock hissed, pulling the stack of mail from Mycroft's hands and slipping it into a bag. 

"Don't pretend you don't care. You've talked the man into moving in with you. You're sharing the same bed. What happens when he moves out and never speaks to you again?"

"He won't move out. He doesn't have the money, you said it yourself. And he won't have to know. Just keep your bloody mouth shut."

"How do you expect him not to find out? He's living with you. Mrs Hudson knows your age. Your school knows your age. At some point someone will slip and he will find out the truth and he'll feel that you betrayed him. At that point I'd say you'll either mishandle his response or sabotage the relationship yourself."

"Realtionship." Sherlock snorted. 

"What would you call it? You're exclusive and living together. Things have got a bit more serious than you expected, haven't they?"

"I have it under control. I don't need him." Sherlock said bitterly. 

"Of course. How silly of me." Mycroft said, standing and walking from the room. 

Sherlock threw a book at the wall and cursed loudly. Control. He needed to stay in control.


	9. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angry sex and after-care.

When Sherlock made it back to 221B the sun was just setting. He'd spent almost five hours walking around the creek by his family's home, trying to glaum some kind of sense from the things he was feeling. There was the warmth that came along with seeing John that turned suddenly sour in his belly when he remembered the pretense of his age and what his brother had told him. There was the ease of thought while John was by, a seeming fluidity of logic, and then the sudden loss once John was gone. There was the burning jealousy when seeing, or indeed even thinking on, others appreciating John's kindness and form. Warring factions that promised his demise. Pathetic. 

John stood as Sherlock brought the first of his things through the door and went to help him. Sherlock wouldn't look him in the eye and it gave John a sense of unease. Best to run headlong into conversation, then. 

"I got Chinese. I can warm some up if you want." He said. 

Sherlock glanced up, his face contorted in pain. "Aren't you going to ask where I was? If I was using? If I lied to you?" 

John's brow furrowed and he shook his head slowly. "No. If you wanted to tell me any of those things you would. I'm not your babysitter, Sherlock." 

"You might as well be." He spit. 

John frowned. "I don't know where this is coming from. If I crossed some line in the sand just tell me." 

"There you go again, the thoughtful protector. Does it ever get old being so bloody GOOD all the time?" Sherlock demanded angrily. 

John laughed, body changing in some minute way. It's the smell in the air just before a thunder storm, the twitch of an ear before attack. It would be sexy if it weren't directed at him. 

"That's what you think of me? Good? I'm sorry to point it out, Sherlock, but you hit far off mark. Do you know how many men I've killed? Do you know how many were lost because I wasn't GOOD ENOUGH to save them? Do you have any idea the blood I've let out in the sand? If I hadn't been under the stiff umbrella of army service they'd call me a serial killer. And do you want to know the worst part? I don't care about the men I've killed. I don't care because they deserved to die. The ones I lost haunt me but the ones I put down, and I did, I put them down like the dogs they were, they slip my mind. I can't remember their faces. They have families that mourn them and I can't remember their bloody faces. So if you want to talk about good you should go somewhere else. I may be righteous, but I have never been GOOD!" John was panting now and clenching his fists. 

Sherlock shot forward and gripped his collar as he crushed their lips together, shoving his tongue between biting teeth and hearing himself moan. John ran his fingers through the younger man's hair and pulled tightly. It was a fight for dominance, pushing and pulling and digging fingernails into delicate skin. Sherlock growled but let himself be dragged by his hair to the floor, thrusting his hips back as John pulled his trousers down, reaching to the counter for cooking oil and coming back with slick and devious hands. 

"Do it!" Sherlock hissed when John hesitated. 

John sniffed loudly and pushed a single finger against Sherlock's hole, rubbing in desperate circles until it opened and Sherlock was moaning again. John pushed in the tip, moving in and out until Sherlock was ready for another. The second finger went in quickly and the third followed with a burn that Sherlock was happy for. 

"Fucking get it on with!" Sherlock spit, humping the air wildly. 

John pulled his trousers down to his thighs, stroked his cock twice and gripped Sherlock's hips roughly. He pulled them back as he sunk in to the hilt. Sherlock was cursing and gripping the carpet tightly and moving his hips in a way that had heat pooling dangerously in John's abdomen. 

"This what you want? You want it rough? You want me to take it from you?" John asked breathlessly. 

"Yes! Fuck! Close!" Sherlock whined. 

John reached around and gripped his cock, jerking quickly and feeling Sherlock tightening around him. He moaned and twisted his wrist and Sherlock started coming all over the floor. The heat and tightness did John in and he buried himself as deeply as he could and grunted, every muscle in his body tight as hot come filled Sherlock. 

Once his vision had come back he slumped onto his side and pulled Sherlock against his chest, kicking his trousers off and wrapping a leg possessively around the younger man. Sherlock tensed a moment and then went slack in his arms. 

"I care about you. Don't ever act like that's wrong." John whispered as he breathed hotly against Sherlock's neck. 

\-----

Ten minutes later, sticky and cramping from laying on the floor, John moved to get up. Sherlock mumbled something and John realised he'd fallen asleep. John extricated himself slowly and went to the bedroom and pulled the sheets down. He returned to the sitting room and scooped Sherlock's slim body easily off the floor and carried him to bed. 

Sherlock mumbled as John cleaned him with a warm flannel, but didn't wake. It made John wonder how long he'd been up in the last few days. He tossed the flannel aside and unlaced Sherlock's shoes and removed them and his socks. His trousers and pants were still around his knees so he pulled them off and rolled the younger man onto his back. The shirt went next, buttons maneuvered carefully and soft material slipped down shoulders. John removed his shirt as well and went to open the window. 

The air was cool and there was rain trickling down the window that he hadn't noticed prior. The city smelled clean and John let himself linger there for a few moments before turning and heading back to bed. He was startled when he found Sherlock silently watching him. 

"I'm no good for you." He whispered. 

John sighed and slipped under the duvet, pulling Sherlock against his chest and running a hand through his curls. 

"Who told you that?" John asked quietly. 

Sherlock was silent, eyes wide and worried. The truth was, no one had said it exactly. It was an amalgamation of things; the way his brother spoke, the way he'd always been treated, the thoughts that spun webs in his mind. 

"Do you care about me?" John asked. 

"I don't want to." Sherlock replied in a hoarse whisper. 

"That wasn't the question."

"Yes."

John sighed again and held Sherlock tighter, winding a bare leg between his and kissing his neck. 

"This is hard for you." John said, pausing before going on. "I'm sorry for that." 

"So what do I do?" Sherlock asked, fear creeping into his voice. 

"You sleep." John said gently. "You listen to the rain and you feel my heart beat and you go to sleep." 

Sherlock seemed to melt at that, giving up the struggle once given permission to. John continued to card his fingers through silky locks until he too drifted off.


	10. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a run in with a classmate at school and John has to face his admirer.

When John woke up the next morning Sherlock was slipping into his shoes and walking to the door. He caught his eye just as he walked out, but the younger man didn't say anything. John felt somewhat sick about it, thinking the tension from the night before must still be running high for Sherlock. Twenty seconds later Sherlock came back up the stairs and walked into the bedroom with a huff. 

"I'm going to school. I'll be back at five. Stop worrying about me." He said with a dramatic eye roll and a kiss to John's forehead. 

He was gone just as fast as he'd arrived and John smiled to the ceiling in relief. The temperamental bastard really was starting to burrow his way into John's heart. He hesitated to call it love, even to himself, because he still knew so little about Sherlock. Sometimes, though, you come across the perfect type of damaged and it fits. It fits so completely that you can just breathe a bit easier for it. Sherlock was his type of damaged, and he knew it. 

\-----

The cab pulled up to the campus and Sherlock hopped out and made his way to the science building. A few people whispered as he moved past them, but none deigned him an actual audible statement. It was fine. He was used to it. He'd always been the black sheep of any group he'd been a part of, and uni was no different. He had scored high enough on his entrance exams to skip even most intermediate courses, and that had seemed to rub quite a few older students the wrong way. One such student, unfortunately, just happened to be in the Chem lab right then. 

"What are you doing here?" Paulson asked bitterly from behind a pair of goggles. 

"I have lab." Sherlock replied calmly. 

"Well, as you can see, I'm already using the lab." The older boy said with a smile. 

"The room has fifteen Bunsen burners. I think we can both use the workspace." Sherlock replied as he set down his rucksack and pulled out his notebook. 

"I don't want to work with you in the room." Paulson spit. 

"And you think as a singular opinion? I pay tuition, therefore I have just as much right as you do to be here." Sherlock said, pulling out a single sheet of paper and scrawling 'complaints' across the top. "I'm going to listen to some music now, but I'm sure you're not done bitching. Feel free to turn this in when you leave."  Sherlock added as he passed the paper over. 

He had a second to hear the boy fume before he slipped his ear buds in and cranked up some Yann Tiersen. He felt instantly calmer as the crisp violin cut into his thoughts, creating focus where there was none. 

It wasn't until an hour later that he was shaken from his work by a rough hand pulling at his hair. Another hand pushed him against the wall and he felt a click as his lip split and blood started to fill his mouth. His consciousness felt disjointed as the music in his ears climbed higher and the warbled voice of the boys behind him tried to break in. He tried to push away from the wall but the strong arm pushed him face first into it. 

It was a strange mix of sound and feeling that let him know his nose was broken. A crunching with the same frequency as the tinkling wind chimes his mother loved so much. And then there was the pain. Hot. Demanding. Nothing he couldn't ignore. 

He clenched his eyes closed as his head was pulled back and his ribs were hit. When he gasped for air a piece of bunched up paper was pushed into his mouth. 

Then the hands were gone and he was allowed to crumple to the floor and spit the paper out so he could take in a huge breath. There was a great deal of blood pouring down the back of his throat and he coughed a bit of it on the cold tile before standing up and finishing his experiment. The blood and spit slick paper ball lay forgotten on the floor, unopened, but spelling out a list of grievances none the less. 

\-----

John finished his lecture and had a student hand out papers needed for the homework. The whole class had broken into discussion after he turned the slides off. He loved to see his students like this, willingly responding to the literature in such a heartfelt way. 

"So you know what reading to do next. Take notes on the sheet provided. Don't feel the need to run off, you can stay and discuss what we discovered today. If you have questions I'll be in Mr Falworth's office till four thirty." John announced as he gathered his things. 

A few students shouted their goodbyes to him and he smiled and left the room. His high spirits sank dramatically as he heard footsteps following him down the hallway. He stopped in front of the office door and turned. Sure enough his 'admirer' was there behind him. 

"John." The thin man murmured. 

"I've told you before, Kenneth, I would prefer it if you called me Mr Watson." John said as he fished out his keys. 

"I want to get you coffee." The man purred. 

John stuck the keys in the door and pushed it open, stopping abruptly when he felt a hand on his arm. 

"Let me take you out." Kenneth insisted. 

John gave himself four deep breaths before pulling his arm away and standing a bit straighter. He sniffed loudly, something he knew he did when getting close to the end of his rope, and lowered his voice. 

"I really wouldn't suggest touching me. I've tried to make myself clear in a kind manner, but it doesn't seem to have worked. Let me try once more before I go to the chancellor. I AM NOT INTERESTED IN YOU. YOU DO NOT APPEAL TO ME. I AM YOUR TEACHER." John was growling at this point. "I suggest you leave." 

"What would I have to do to change your mind?" Kenneth asked with a grin. 

John spun around when he heard a familiar voice come from behind him.   
"I'd suggest a lobotomy." Sherlock said with a pained grin. 

John's focus was so swiftly off of the idiot behind him and onto his boyfriend's black and blue face that he didn't even register the anger when he slammed the door in Kenneth's face. He pushed Sherlock into a seat to look over his injuries. 

"I've already been to A&E. It was only a bit broken. Don't make that face." Sherlock said pitifully. 

"What happened?" John asked, voice low and full of concern. 

"I got mugged." Sherlock lied. 

John went to the door. "I'm going to get an ice pack. Stay here, okay?" 

Sherlock nodded and sat back in his seat. He swallowed what he knew to be blood and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. He had that burning feeling in the pit of his stomach that he got when he didn't want John to be disappointed in him. He didn't know where the hell it came from. He didn't know why he'd lied. 

Well, that wasn't completely true. He'd lied because John thought he was special, worthy, and he didn't want John to know that the real reason for his broken nose was his own stupidity. He knew what would happen if he pissed off Paulson. He just wanted for once to really piss him off. The imbecile had been cruel to him for months and he'd always held back. He was sick of it. 

The door opened, pulling him from his thoughts, and John walked in with the promised ice pack wrapped in a flannel. He knelt in front of Sherlock and held it out like an offering to a god. Sherlock took it and pressed it to his face gently. 

"I can leave now. I think...yeah, we should go home." John said, standing and putting together a note for his students. 

"You don't have to. I can make it home on my own, I'm not a bloody invalid." Sherlock said with a wince. 

"Don't be a dick." John replied, grabbing the tape and affixing the note to the door. "I'm going to take care of you." 

Sherlock was shocked into silence for once and stood in seeming patience for John to get his things. As they finally made their way down the hallway Sherlock choked back a sob as John took his hand. His eyes burned with unshed tears and he had to look away several times to stop from crying right there in the open. 

They got to John's car and made their way home slowly. Sherlock stayed in his seat when John parked and walked in to get takeaway from their favorite Chinese place, John deciding Indian might be too spicy for someone with limited sinus capabilities. Sherlock managed to keep it together until they were safely inside the flat. That's when he started to sob. 

"Jesus! Are you okay?" John asked, wrapping his arms around Sherlock. 

Sherlock dropped the ice pack and thrashed for a second before going slack in his arms. 

"Are you going to tell me what really happened?" John asked after a good few minutes. He wasn't an idiot, after all, and had noticed that Sherlock still had his rucksack and wallet after the supposed mugging. 

"I'm an idiot!" Sherlock hissed. "You want to know what happened? I got beat up. I pissed someone off and they had their friends beat the crap out of me. Everyone hates me because I only care about the schoolwork and the science. Everyone hates me because I'm a bloody freak!" 

"Fucking bastard! You aren't a freak, Sherlock!" John insisted. "And nobody's going to be liked by all their classmates." 

"You don't understand! Everyone hates me! Everyone! Even the teachers! There isn't one person on campus that wouldn't like to see me hurt." Sherlock cried. 

"Well, maybe you're at the wrong school." John added a bit hopefully. 

"It's not the school! No one likes me! You're the only person I know who doesn't actively HATE me!" Sherlock hollered. 

John felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Seeing Sherlock in this much pain was horrible. 

Sherlock was suddenly having trouble breathing as his sobs became more desperate and he let out little whining noises. John maneuvered him into a chair and rubbed his back gently. 

"It's going to be okay." He whispered. 

Sherlock shook and cried, breath struggling to stay even. He felt like he might never stop crying, like maybe he would be like this forever. Like the dam had finally burst and now he was completely broken. Was this what it was like to go mad? This complete lack of control over your own body? This inability to think straight? Had he finally lost it?


	11. Beautiful Boy

It took almost a half hour to calm Sherlock down, and even then he was wracked with a deep sob every once in a while. John settled him into the sofa and put NOVA on while he heated up the Chinese and made tea. He got a warm flannel and cleaned Sherlock's face slowly, letting it soothe him. Sherlock was mostly unresponsive and started to sob again so severely while eating that he almost choked. 

A few hours later Sherlock was calm enough for John to turn off the telly and read while the younger man relaxed with his head in his lap, John's hand moving gently in the dark curls. 

The evening passed in silence as John attempted to focus and Sherlock tried to gather what was left of his thoughts. John tried to appear calm as he was filled with painful turmoil. 

He was angry at the whole bloody world for making someone as amazing as Sherlock Holmes so broken, and desperately sad that Sherlock had to put up with it. He felt helpless in the face of it all, like he couldn't do anything besides stand there and watch people tear the boy apart piece by piece. 

"John." Sherlock murmured, voice nasal from the broken nose and crying. 

"Yeah, love." John said, not bothered by the endearment that slipped out.  
"Can we go to bed?"

"Course." John replied, helping Sherlock up and walking with him to the bedroom. 

"My head's killing me." Sherlock mumbled as he sat and took off his shoes. 

John went to the loo and relieved himself, then got out a couple paracetamol and a glass of water. He came back to find Sherlock quietly crying under the covers. He handed him the pills and made sure he drank the whole glass of water before getting out of his clothes and slipping into bed next to him. 

Sherlock took a couple wet breaths and let John pull him into an embrace. John kissed his shoulder and wound his arm around him so his hand rested over Sherlock's heart. 

"Beautiful boy. I'm right here." He whispered against Sherlock's curls. 

Sherlock made a small whining noise that broke John's heart and went limp. John kissed his neck gently and continued issuing praises until Sherlock fell into a deep sleep. He followed soon after, the emotional evening taking a toll on him as well. 

\-----

The next morning John woke to find Sherlock bringing him breakfast in bed. He sat up and took the tray that was offered to him. It was piled with eggs and beans and fried tomatoes. There were two slices of bread; one with butter and another with jam. 

"What's the occasion?" He asked. 

"We're even." Sherlock said as he went to fetch the fresh coffee in the kitchen. 

"What do you mean, we're even?" John called after him. 

Sherlock returned with the coffee and sat next to John on the bed. 

"You put up with me being pointlessly emotional yesterday so I made you breakfast. Now we're even." Sherlock said calmly. 

John took a bite of toast and rolled his eyes. "That's not how things work." He said after swallowing. 

"Well, I'm not going to be in your debt forever!" Sherlock said impatiently.  
"That's not what I meant. Has no one ever been kind to you without wanting something back?"

"Why would someone do that?" Sherlock asked, looking honestly dumbfounded. 

John put down the tray and turned towards him. "If I had a horrible day and you took care of me would you expect me to 'make it up to you'?" 

"No."Sherlock said with a dismissive snort. 

"So why would you think you have to do that for me?" John asked. 

"Because...because...well, that's just what's expected of me. I can be a bit of a burden."

"You don't have to make anything up to me. Now share some of these eggs and I might let you leave the bed eventually." John replied with a smile. 

Sherlock huffed but took a small bite. John ate the rest of the toast and most of the beans before Sherlock had even touched the fried tomato, but he was eating, and that was an improvement. After breakfast John pulled Sherlock back down under the covers and wrapped himself around him. 

"John. What are you doing? We should get up." Sherlock said with false exasperation. 

"Nope. We're staying right here. You're warm and smell nice and I'm still sleepy." John replied. 

"And horny." Sherlock added. 

"A bit horny." John admitted as he rubbed up against Sherlock's back. 

Sherlock chuckled and the sound of it sent even more heat rushing to John's cock. John rutted again and Sherlock sighed deeply. He let out a surprised moan when John reached around him to palm his cock. 

"John." He said breathlessly. 

"I'm not the only horny one." John whispered as he kissed Sherlock's neck. 

Sherlock hummed agreement and shifted his hips so John's erection pressed between his arsecheeks through the thin material of his boxer shorts. John grunted and moved hard against him, wrapping a leg around his thigh and pulling him closer. 

"John." Sherlock repeated. 

"Tell me what you need." John replied. 

"I need you to touch me." Sherlock whispered. 

John hummed and reached into his pants to pull out his cock. It was already red and slick, leaking precome from he tip. John rolled his thumb through it and began stroking Sherlock as he rutted harder against his arse. 

"That's it love, let go. I want to see you let go." John murmured as he flicked his wrist.

Sherlock moaned and thrust his hips and John smiled against his shoulder. 

"That's it. That's a good lad. Are you getting close? Are you gonna come for me?" John asked in a gentle tone. 

"Yes! God, so close!" Sherlock whined as he rolled his hips. 

John growled and sped up his hand, feeling himself tremble on the precipice. 

"Please! Please! Please!" Sherlock whimpered. 

"Yeah, do it." John said. 

Sherlock shuddered and came all over John's fist. His arsecheeks tightened and John cursed and came in his pants. He continued to stroke Sherlock until his sighs turned into whimpers. 

"Breakfast in bed and sloppy morning sex. You're going to spoil me, Sherlock," John said once he could speak again. 

Sherlock laughed weakly and closed his eyes, content to lay in his own mess for the time being. John kissed his shoulder and breathed deeply against his neck.


	12. Doomed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Paulson and runs into a bit of gossip at school. And they're both doomed. (in a fairly okay way)

A few hours later, post shower sex, John slipped into his favorite denims and a blue shirt. Sherlock put on his usual, tailored trousers and tight button up, and grabbed his shoes. 

"This is ridiculous." He huffed. 

"No, it really isn't. If you aren't going to be safe at school then I'm going to come with you. Just this time, okay? I want to meet this arsehole." John said as he tied his shoelaces and grabbed his shooting jacket. He could already feel adrenaline pumping through his veins. That little tickle in the back of his mind telling him to protect what was his. 

"You aren't going to hit him, are you?" Sherlock asked as he pulled on his greatcoat. He wouldn't admit that the idea of seeing John beating the living daylights out of Paulson was bringing his prick back to attention. How utterly plebeian. 

"No, but we will have some choice words."

"What if he's not there?"

"Then he'll be lucky. Let's go."

Sherlock followed John out, nodding to Mrs Hudson as they passed, and got into the car. He didn't want to admit how nervous he was so he stayed quiet for the whole trip. John, on the other hand, couldn't seem to shut up. 

"So I'm thinking we'll order in. I'll have a load of papers to grade, and I know I'll have to take a break halfway through. We can order a movie, something new. Have any preferences?" When Sherlock didn't respond he carried on. "I heard the new bond one was good. Almost saw it in theatre. You'll have to suspend your disbelief, but you'll have to do that no matter what we watch." 

They pulled into student parking and John got out to pay and get the ticket. Sherlock looked at his hands and realised they were shaking. He stuck them in his pockets and sat up straighter. John came back and found them a space. 

On the way in Sherlock got more than the normal amount of looks, he was sporting quite the menagerie of bruises. They wound their way through campus and to the Chem lab in no time. Sure enough, Paulson was working on something right as they walked through the doors. 

"Did your daddy get you a body guard?" He asked with a sneer. 

John laughed as he moved closer. This visibly unsettled the bully, he looked back and forth between Sherlock and John. John took the seat next to him and rested against the table. 

"Go ahead, Sherlock, start your work." He said without breaking eye contact with Paulson. 

"Who are you, anyway?" The boy asked. (For he was a boy, a pathetic boy.) 

"Me? I'm John. Sherlock there's my boyfriend." John answered with that same frightening grin. He looked like he might just eat Paulson, like some kind of ancient beast. 

"Yeah, right." The boy sniffed, moving from foot to foot. 

"You're going to find out that what I tell you will always be true. Sherlock's mine, and you hurt him. I, unfortunately, will have to repay the favor."

Paulson made the mistake of trying to strike John at that point and was soon on his front on the floor. John leaned down and whispered in his ear. 

"I promised Sherlock I wouldn't hit you. I can't say the same for my friends." 

He stood and let the boy gather his things and leave the room, then went to Sherlock's side and sat down to watch his genius work. 

What Sherlock didn't know was that the man he saw watching the interaction from the door was an old friend of John's. They were in the army together. He was very good with his hands, well, fists. 

John's friend Murray followed Paulson to his car and confronted him. He introduced himself and his companion, another of John's army friends, and deftly broke the boy's right wrist. It was a clean motion that had Paulson screaming out in pain. The precision got the point across. Murray kissed him on the cheek roughly and they walked away. Paulson would not soon forget the kiss, with its mockery of affection. 

\-----

John left an hour later to make his way across town to his students. Class went well and his stalker seemed a little less eager for his company. He didn't know whether what he said had made a difference or what the man saw in his eyes when John was faced with a broken Sherlock. He knew it must have been love. Pain and love. He couldn't lie to himself anymore. 

The students handed in their papers and filed out slowly and his advising teacher asked him to lunch. He accepted and they walked to the cafeteria. John got a pre-made sandwich and sat opposite Mr Dixon. 

"I got a disturbing phone call this morning. One of your students said they saw you comforting a boy with a broken nose. They seemed to think he was a student of yours and you were in a relationship with him. I told them they were wrong." The man said. 

John rolled his eyes. "They're wrong. He's my boyfriend, yeah, but he doesn't go here. He had a bit of trouble and came to see me. I know exactly what this is." 

Mr Dixon raised an eyebrow. 

"One of my students, in the class just now actually, has been asking me on dates. I've turned him down repeatedly and he's obviously scorned." John said. 

Mr Dixon sighed and took a bite of his pizza, shaking his head. 

"I tried to let him down easy, but he's a persistent bastard." John added before sipping his drink. 

"Oh, John. You can't let that type down easy. I had one of those when I was in my first year teaching. Followed me around like a lovesick puppy for so long I thought I should be gentle with her. She got belligerent when I turned her down." Mr Dixon said sadly. "Is your boyfriend okay?" 

"Yeah. He's dealing with a bit of bullying. He's a genius and has a bit of trouble with social cues." John said. "I think I'm in love."  He added with a laugh. 

"Good on you, John." Mr Dixon said with a smile. 

They ate the rest of their meal in comfortable silence. Mr Dixon was the closest thing John had to a father. Well, one that cared. He'd been a bit worried that admitting he was bisexual would rub him the wrong way. A lot of people assumed he was just gay and had been in the closet. It was a ridiculous notion, but seemed prevalent none the less. 

\-----

Sherlock got a few more strange looks throughout the day but made it back to Baker Street without any more trouble. John was already home, glasses on and red pen sticking haphazardly out of his mouth. He looked up with a smile as Sherlock walked in and set down his things. 

"I missed you." He said with a gentle smile. 

Sherlock snorted and walked over to where he was on the sofa. 

"We saw each other five hours ago. How could you have missed me?"

John grabbed him and pulled him into his lap. Sherlock pulled a face that said such obvious displays of affection were juvenile. John kissed him softly anyway. He ran a hand through Sherlock's hair and held him close. 

"I miss you all the time. I love you, you git." He whispered. 

Sherlock went stiff and he immediately regretted letting that slip out. 

"I didn't mean...it's just...I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." John sputtered, cheeks lighting up red. 

"It's not...it's only..."  Sherlock tried. 

"You don't have to say anything." John replied. 

"And yet! I've been trying to avoid this!" Sherlock said, standing and pulling at his hair. 

John's stomach sank and he suddenly felt very foolish. Of course Sherlock didn't love him back. John was rushing into things and he'd always had trouble keeping his feelings to himself. 

"I'm convinced at this point that I love you, too! There's no other explanation! I've been trying to avoid this! I didn't want this!" Sherlock shouted agitatedly. 

John stood, relief rushing through him, and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. 

"Is it going to be this overwhelming forever?" Sherlock asked with a shaky voice. 

"I don't know." John answered honestly. 

"I'm doomed." Sherlock replied. 

"Oh, love, we're doomed together." John said, kissing Sherlock's neck. 

Sherlock slumped against him with a petulant sigh and John laughed softly. 

"Don't laugh at my pain." Sherlock whined. 

"Make love to me." John whispered.


	13. Careless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The titular chapter, ladies and gentlemen. Things go bad. If you're upset after this chapter and need a pick me up, go read my new one-off 'Maybe We Should Find Out'. It's feel good porn. This is just pain.

The first mistake Sherlock made was lying about his age. It was easy for him to slip up because he didn't know how much John would come to mean to him. The second mistake came months later. 

The rain hitting the windows was frighteningly cold, so close to snow that it was more of a slush than an actual array of drops. John had just lit a fire and was making some of his famous homemade cider when Sherlock walked in looking like a very livid wet cat. His teeth were rattling noisily. 

"Christ! Let's get you out of those clothes." John said, running to grab a few towels and leaving the stove top on low. 

Sherlock slipped out of his greatcoat and hung it by the door. His body was dry, but his hair was cold and wet and the water had dripped down into his collar. He unbuttoned his shirt and removed his shoes, going to sit in front of the fire and waiting for John. 

John returned seconds later, his John, his perfect John, and wrapped the first towel around his shoulders and went to drying his hair with the second. Sherlock wiggled his toes and felt them thaw a bit. 

"Jesus, why were you outside long enough to get this cold?" John asked.   
"C-c-case. You were at sch-school and it wasn't very interesting." He replied. 

"Well, I've got a roast in the oven. You continue getting warmer and I'm gonna get you a cup of cider and finish making dinner." John said, taking the first towel, which was soaked now, and tossing it in the hamper in the bedroom. 

Sherlock wrapped the towel around his head and sat with his legs crossed in front of the hearth. He was agitated with how the case had gone and feeling more than a bit on edge. He was honestly struggling with his addiction and John looked to be perfectly fine. He didn't want to be bitter, but he was already feeling out of sorts. 

"I was going to ask you, I know it's still a month off but, what are you doing for Christmas?" John asked as he took out the roast. "I usually try to avoid my family. I know you probably do the same. You never talk about your parents." 

"That's because they're dead, John." Sherlock snapped. 

John's face went white and Sherlock felt as though he couldn't breathe. Why in the bloody hell had he said that? What the fuck was he thinking? He was just so agitated and the easiest way to avoid John meeting his parents would be to say they were dead. It wouldn't work though, John loved him, John would find out, John would-

"Christ, I'm so sorry. Sherlock. Sherlock, you've got to breathe." John said as he cradled Sherlock's head. 

Panic attack. Perfect. John was once again a strong member of society and he was laying on his sitting room floor, half-naked, having a panic attack right after lying about something important to THE ONLY PERSON WHO HAD EVER LOVED HIM. Fucking classic Sherlock. Perfect. 

\-----

They didn't talk about the incident for almost a month. John helped him through the attack and assumed it was over the shock of talking about his dead parents. Sherlock tried to tell himself that he'd only half lied because his father was dead, so he should only feel half guilty. 

The plan fell apart with a knock to the door early one evening. John went to get it, because Sherlock never answered the door on his own, and smiled at the well dressed older woman on their stoop. 

"Can I help you?" He asked. 

Her eyes lit up and she wrapped him in a hug, startling him fully and catching Sherlock's attention. Sherlock stood and backed away towards the fireplace, eyes wide and mouth open. An outsider might have said he looked like he'd seen a ghost. John probably would have punched said outsider. 

"You must be John! Oh, I've heard so much about you. Well, not from Sherlock, but Mycroft seems to quite like you." She said happily. 

"And you are?" John asked, looking over his shoulder at a shocked Sherlock. 

"Why, I'm Sherlock's mum." She replied. 

Something changed in how John was standing. It was what he thought of as autopilot, body straightening and falling into motions he perfected in he army. He smiled what was probably too sad to actually call a smile and walked to the kitchen. 

"Tea?" He asked, already taking down three mugs and filling the kettle. 

Mummy Holmes was happy to go sit on the sofa and await her drink. When Sherlock didn't come and sit across from her she spoke up. 

"Sherlock, what's wrong? Is it not a good time?" She asked. 

John snorted from the kitchen and leaned against the counter. He felt light headed. It was impossible. The woman wasn't lying and Sherlock wasn't saying anything and he felt like he was going a bit mad. 

"If it's not a good time I can come by later." The woman said softly. 

John turned and brought her a box of biscuits. 

"It's as good a time as any, I suppose. Biscuit?" He asked. 

She smiled happily and John went back to pour the hot water for tea. Sherlock was still standing against the fireplace but had managed to close his mouth. He watched in horror as John took the tea to the small sitting room table and grabbed the cream and sugar. John sat next to mummy Holmes and looked pointedly at Sherlock. 

"Aren't you going to join us, dear?" Mummy asked. 

\-----

After mummy had gone on for about an hour about how happy she was that her youngest had finally found someone and John had begged off Christmas, saying his had to spend it with his family, the woman left. Shelock returned to his place by the mantle, as though being out of the range of a physical blow would help, and tested the waters. 

"You don't really want to spend Christmas with your parents." He said, trying to cover the shakiness of his voice. "Why did you turn down mummy's offer?" 

John took the empty cups to the kitchen and started washing them. 

"She wanted me to join the family as your boyfriend. I can't do that." He said tensly. 

Sherlock felt his stomach sink lower (surprised that it was possible). 

"Why, John?" He asked, hoping that he didn't know the answer. 

"I'll sleep on the couch tonight but I need you to have the second bedroom ready for me by tomorrow. I've got school in the afternoon and I'll need a place to relax when I come back." John replied with pained calmness. 

"No, John." Sherlock replied, not meaning to speak at all but having it fall from his lips. 

"No, what Sherlock? No, don't break up with you? No, don't move upstairs? No, what?" He demanded angrily.

"My father really is dead, so-" Sherlock began. 

John said then something he promised he'd never say. It was something he'd heard his father ask his sister and it was without a doubt the worst question to ask someone. 

"What is wrong with you?" He hollered, throwing a cup on the ground and turning with tears in his eyes. "What in the hell is wrong with you?" 

"John." Sherlock murmured. 

"Don't! Don't you fucking say my name like that! What else have you lied about Sherlock? I can't help but wonder, since lying about something so important was so easy for you." John was screaming now and shaking as he walked around the broken china and stalked towards Sherlock's shrinking form. 

"I'm only eighteen." Sherlock blurted out, sticking a hand over his mouth immediately in shock. 

John laughed, a horrible hollow sound, and fisted his own hair. 

"Who the hell are you? They're right, aren't they? You are a bloody psychopath! Do you feel anything, Sherlock? Do you fucking feel anything?" John's voice had gone ragged around the edges and his leg was giving out and he barely made it to the door. 

"John, please, I'm sorry." He tried as John grabbed his coat and keys. 

"Yeah, sure." John scoffed. 

Sherlock felt his throat close up and could only watch as John left the flat. 

\-----

Four hours later the bartender at the Fox and Hound tossed John out the front door and closed it behind him as he stumbled to the ground. John turned his head at the last second to avoid vomiting all over the expensive shoes on the kerb. The expensive shoes that held the elder Holmes brother. 

"Thank you for not emptying your stomach on me." Mycroft purred. 

A tall man exited the black sedan behind Mycroft and helped John up. He slid him into the back seat and handed him a flannel for his mouth then returned to his place behind the wheel and slowly pulled away once Mycroft was inside. 

"Would you like a ride home?" Mycroft asked. 

"Can't go home." John slurred. 

Mycroft tapped twice on the glass divider and the driver turned them in the direction of Mycroft's flat. John fell asleep on the way there. Mycroft had been texting off and on throughout the evening and knew all that had happened. He had a handler at 221b right now watching after Sherlock. The last thing he needed was an overdose on his hands. 

When they pulled up the the kerb outside Mycroft's flat the older Holmes maneuvered John out of the car and his driver helped John the rest of the way into the flat. Mycroft poured himself a drink as his assistant helped John empty his bladder into the toilet and get into the shower. He'd thrown up on himself on the drive home and he was filthy. 

Mycroft stared into the fireplace as John was dried and wrapped like a Christmas present in warm pajamas and then deposited in his bed. The man was asleep again in minutes and Mycroft took the seat next to the fire. His maid brought in a piece of bread and some paracetamol an hour later and woke John so he could take them. 

Mycroft continued to watch John's sleeping body throughout the night, every now and again fielding a message from his brother. Just before dawn he received the second to last. 

IS HE OKAY?   
SH 

Mycroft frowned at the small screen and typed out an answer before slipping onto the bed, over the covers of course, and falling asleep with John's warmth radiating towards him. 

HE'S ALIVE.   
MH 

I WAS CARELESS.   
SH


	14. You Can't Do That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter ladies and gentlemen! It's all okay from now on.

John rolled over a little after nine and regretted it. His head was pounding. A hand rested against his and then another pressed a glass of what he assumed was water into it. He sat slowly, not wanting to jostle his skull and took a long sip. 

"Thank you." He whispered. 

"You're quite welcome." Mycroft replied softly. 

John's eyes shot open, which was a mistake, and he gaped at the man next to him in bed. Mycroft smiled gently for the first time John had ever soberly witnessed and handed him a couple white pills. 

"For your head." He reassured John. 

John put them in his mouth and swallowed them down. It took a little bit of thinking to recall what had happened the night before and decide he must have been close to blackout drunk to not remember leaving the Fox and Hound at all. 

"I heard from Sherlock what had happened," Mycroft said, noting John's flinch at his brother's name. "I followed you to the bar just in case..." 

"Just in case I got so hammered I didn't know where I was? Christ." John interjected. 

"Yes. Sherlock is fine, by the way. I have someone monitoring him so he doesn't do anything stupid. I know you care, though you wouldn't have asked." Mycroft said, leaning against the wall and resting his hands in his lap. 

"We didn't..." John said with a groan, motioning between himself and Mycroft vaguely. 

"Have relations? No. Although you did come on pretty strong." Mycroft said with his eyebrows raised. 

"I did?" John choked. 

"Of course not." Mycroft admitted. "You were as much a gentleman as one can be with a stomach full of alcohol and cheap pretzels. You even managed to vomit away from my shoes." 

John slumped back into the warm sheets and closed his eyes. "Is this where you're going to tell me that Sherlock didn't mean any harm and that I should forgive him?"  

"He didn't mean any harm, I'm sure of that, but I won't tell you what to do next, John. You deserve someone who is honest with you. I'm just hoping Sherlock will figure out that that person should be himself." Mycroft said truthfully. "I warned him that this would happen." 

"What did he say when you warned him?" John asked. 

"You do know this is his first relationship. He's never been interested in anyone emotionally before. He's used to manipulating people to get what he wants." Mycroft replied. "If you do decide to forgive him I suggest you remember that it may happen again." 

"That's reassuring." John said, rolling his eyes and immediately regretting it. 

"If you want reassurance you've come to the wrong place. I'm here to tell you that I've never seen my brother care about someone as much as he does you, and he may act like a complete imbecile because of it."

"I have to get up. Can I use your shower?" John said, slipping from the bed and standing on uneasy legs. 

"Absolutely. I've laid out clothes for you as well. It's down the hall on the left." Mycroft said. 

John nodded and walked from the room. 

\-----

"Mr Holmes. Put it down." The tall man with blond hair said as he cornered Sherlock in the kitchen. 

Sherlock raised the plate over his head and snarled. "Or what? You'll hit me? Has my brother paid you to rough me up? Is that it?" 

"You need to get in the shower, Mr Holmes." The man replied, simply repeating what he'd said several times before. 

"I'm not going anywhere, and you aren't my mother." Sherlock hissed. 

"No." A feminine voice said from the entryway. "She's dead, isn't she?" 

"Very funny, Anthea." Sherlock spit. 

"John didn't seem to think so." She replied, not even looking up from her mobile. 

"What do you care?" Sherlock asked. 

"John Watson is a good man, Sherlock. Stop acting like a child and fix this." She replied, actually looking him in the eye for the first time Sherlock could remember. 

Sherlock frowned almost violently and stomped to the shower. 

\-----

That evening, when John finally made it back to 221b, he found Sherlock laying on the floor and not moving. He almost rushed to his side until he noticed the younger man was breathing. He sighed and walked to the upstairs bedroom. 

He was relieved to find all of his things were there, but soon panicked and went through the drawer that had been designated the pants and socks drawer. The small box was inside, still wrapped in shiny red paper. He held it in his hands for a while before tearing the paper off and opening it. 

Inside he found his second identification disc on the length of ball chain he'd bought for Sherlock. He pulled it out and turned it over in his hands, tears threatening to spill down his face. He'd planned on giving it to Sherlock for Christmas, hoping he would see it as the grand gesture it was. Now he simply stuck it in his pocket and tossed the box to the floor. 

\-----

Things fell into a silent sort of normalcy after that and a month passed before John knew it. He'd spent Christmas with his family and New Year's with Murray and some other army buddies. 

Sherlock had taken to spending a lot of time simply laying on the sitting room floor and John didn't know what to make of it. He went about his days without talking to Sherlock, although he wanted so desperately to. Food showed up in the fridge at regular intervals and John figured it must be Mrs Hudson. 

Little did he know, Sherlock was going to Tesco while he was out and braving the stupidity of the general public to care for him. He got little pots of yogurt and milk for John's tea. He made sure said tea was always in stock and bread was ready for John's morning toast. He even managed to get the right jam every time. Then he went back to laying face down on the floor. 

He'd nearly been kicked out of school, as he'd stopped attending classes, but they were on break for the first half of the month and Mycroft had told the school his brother needed some mental health days. It was true. 

Things finally came to a head when Murray showed up one night at their door. Sherlock saw John smile the way he'd began to think of as his personal one and watched in horror as Murray took John out for drinks. 

\-----

John sat back in the booth and took a long sip of his lager. He'd been working hard at school all week and was happy to take up Murray's offer when he'd got a call from him earlier. Things had always been almost fragile between him and Murray. There had been times when their eyes had locked and John thought the taller man might make a move. 

One of those times had been New Year's eve. As the clock ticked down John felt Murray's leg brush his and he could have sworn he was going to kiss him. They'd been around their army buddies though, and he thought maybe Murray had stopped himself because of that. 

Now they were alone. 

"How was your week?" Murray asked. 

"Good, yeah." John replied. 

"I've got a new job at a shipping factory. It's hard work but the pay's good. Hell, I'll even buy drinks tonight." Murray said with a grin. 

John grinned back and clinked their glasses together. 

\-----

He'd seen the look in Murray's eyes. He'd been hanging around a lot more as of late and Sherlock knew what he was thinking. It was making Sherlock sick to think of the large man touching John, gripping his thigh, stroking his face. He had to do something. Anything. He picked up his mobile and turned it over in his hands. 

\-----

They'd both had a bit much to drink and the pub had become too crowded and warm. They walked out the back door and leaned against the wall, laughing about something they'd seen and standing close together. When the laughter died down Murray let his hand brush against John's. 

It felt good to be touched, even this small amount, and John leaned against the taller man. He let his eyes slip closed as Murray moved to press him gently against the wall, really only holding him up. Murray slid his hands into John's hair and brushed a thumb across his cheek. 

"You've let your hair grow out a bit. It suits you." He whispered. 

"What are you doing, Murray?" John asked, just as softly. 

"What I should have done ages ago." Murray replied, leaning in to brush his lips softly against John's. 

John let him, caught up in the wave of emotion brought on by the fact that someone actually wanted him. They kissed slowly for a while and then Murray pulled away. 

"I'll be good to you, Johnny. I'll take care of you, I promise, if you'll just let me." Murray whispered against John's lips. 

John's mobile pinged and he stiffened. 

"Don't check it." Murray said, knowing it would be Sherlock. "He's not good enough for you." 

"He might be in trouble." John replied. 

"He's not yours to look after anymore." Murray said. 

And that's what did it. John pushed Murray away and started walking down the street towards home. His heart was beating fast in his chest and he remembered for the first time that Sherlock was fragile and needed to be cared for. 

He'd spent the last month trying to convince himself he didn't need Sherlock. The one thing he forgot to take into account was that Sherlock needed him. He was an idiot for not seeing it, not believing it. 

He sped up as he got to Baker Street and almost ran up the stairs. Sherlock was on the floor as he had been when John left and John knelt next to him, pulling him up and holding the crying boy. Sherlock was slack in his arms. 

"You can't do that, okay? You can't lie to me. I fucking love you and I know you're scared and I'm scared too, okay?" John said, tears now rolling down his face as well. 

"I-I I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry." Sherlock said, chest heaving. 

John kissed him and held him tight as he stood and walked them both into the downstairs bedroom. Sherlock lay back on the bed and cried softly as John lay down and took him in his arms. His hands were shaking as he ran them over Sherlock's chest.


	15. Second Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our epilogue. Thank you so much for reading.

"I missed you, God, I fucking missed you." John murmured against Sherlock's lips. 

Sherlock took in a deep breath and spoke, voice shaking. "He kissed you." 

John drew back and frowned. "Yeah. And then I left. I'm back, okay? I'm back and I'm not going to leave this time." John said, reaching into his shirt, drawing out his dogs tags and pulling the ball chain over his head. He slipped it over Sherlock's and the boy let out a shuddering sigh. 

John stood and walked to the loo, not sure if he'd ever be able to breathe correctly again. He couldn't believe he'd done it. He hadn't taken them off in years, bloody years. The thought of them resting against Sherlock's skin was making his stomach do little clumsy cartwheels. 

Once in the small white room he gripped the sink and let his head fall forward. Christ. No going back. He couldn't fucking live without the brat. He'd been miserable the last few months, walking around like he was living with a ghost. He missed the rude little comments and ridiculous behavior. He missed making tea and listening to Sherlock's ramblings. 

He turned on the faucet and held a clean flannel under it for a second, then turned it back off again and squeezed out the excess. When he got back to the room Sherlock was gripping the little metal discs and murmuring to himself. John caught a bit of it as he approached. 

"Get yourself together. Get yourself together." The younger man said under his breath. 

John crawled up the bed and started wiping away the tracks the tears had left. Sherlock's eyes blinked open and he gripped John's wrist. He didn't say anything but he didn't have to. The look was pleading and apologising and thanking at the same time. It said everything John needed to hear. 

\-----

It was five years later. It hadn't seemed that long. John was sat in his chair and Sherlock was bent over an experiment, goggles pushing his hair up on one side. They'd finished the last case after the week from hell wherein Sherlock watched John punch Sebastian Wilkes, saved him from certain death and bought a ring. A ring which was currently resting in his right front pocket. 

He couldn't wait any longer, setting the experiment aside and taking off his goggles, he made his way to the sitting room. John was fully engrossed in his latest writeup. Over the last two years he'd been on the best seller list multiple times and had garnered a fairly rabid readership on his blog. He tapped away at the keys. 

"The Blind Banker? Really?" Sherlock asked as he peered over John's shoulder. 

"Don't mock alliteration, Sherlock." John mumbled. 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and walked around the chair to rest on one knee in front of John. The man continued to type, figuring Sherlock was just sitting strangely as he always seemed to. It took Sherlock clearing his throat twice for John to close his laptop. 

"Just tell me you want tea for God's sake. You don't need to lurk..." John's sentence was cut off as he took in the sight before him. 

"If you're done whining I'd like to ask you to be my husband." Sherlock said, trying for annoyed but not being able to stifle the small smile. 

"You mean to say..." John murmured. 

"Marry me." Sherlock said, emboldened by John's reaction. 

"Yes. Yes. Best bloody idea you've ever had!" John said, holding his hand out so Sherlock could slip the ring on. 

\-----

Two weeks later Sherlock and John made their way onto a crime scene with a new detective. Lestrade had told the man a bit about Sherlock, but had somehow forgot to mention his trusty sidekick. They got to the yellow crime scene tape and Sherlock held it up so John could slip under it, following him and walking up to an already exasperated detective. 

"You're the Holmes boy, but who's he?" The short man asked. 

Donovan walked up just then and crossed her arms. "That's-" 

"This is John Watson-Holmes, my husband. He joins me on all our cases. You'll be happy he's here to keep me in line." Sherlock interrupted before walking around the man and a shocked Sally to the dead body. 

"Husband?" Sally asked, eyes wide. 

"Yeah" John said with a grin. "Just last week. Small service. Greg came, did he not mention it?" 

Sally blinked a few times before clearing her throat. "Congrats." 

John smiled softly then. "Thank you, Sally." 

She just nodded almost solemnly and walked away. 

"John. I need you." Sherlock said loudly from where he was knelt in front of the body. 

"No doubt." John mumbled as he made his way to his husband. His husband. Christ that was nice. 

\-----

Sherlock insisted on joining John on all of his book tours in the following years, putting his hand possessively on John's as the man read to excited crowds. Sherlock had become somewhat of a legend with John's readers; Sherlock Holmes 'the great detective'. 

The signings after the readings were always interesting. Many people wanted Sherlock to sign their books as well, he was the basis for all the stories. Sherlock would always refuse, using the excuse that John romanticised their cases too much for him to put his signature on them. John knew it was Sherlock's way of giving John the spotlight. 

\-----

After all the hubbub they would retire to their hotel room where John would make tea and Sherlock would lay on his back on the bed complaining about how utterly bored he was. John would climb up and kiss him and Sherlock would grumble but slowly melt in his arms. 

\-----

Many years later, in the garden of their small home in the country, John would sit by as Sherlock talked to his bees. He would type away on his laptop and hum every now and then when Sherlock made some comment about the hive. It was comfortable and calm and Sherlock was actually quite content out there with John. 

They ate sandwiches in the garden and fell asleep watching telly at night and Sherlock never took for granted that years earlier John had given him a second chance.


End file.
